


Almost Home

by jopling



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Characters, M/M, Slow Burn, no deaths don't worry haha, rating to bump up in the later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26422960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jopling/pseuds/jopling
Summary: It's been ten years since Iwaizumi's last spoken to Oikawa.That is, until Oikawa winds up in his hospital's emergency room.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 106
Kudos: 249





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I've had this story in my head for years but never managed to put it down, so some of the events divert from what's happened in the series. 
> 
> 2) I am also not in the medical field and am relying on Google to help supply me with the details to make things realistic, but if you spot any inaccuracies, please don't mind them and consider them as creative liberties taken to tell the story, haha!
> 
> 3) It's been years since I've written a full-length story, so forgive me in advance. :P

– – –

It’s nearing the end of a long day and Iwaizumi is finishing his last appointment, a consultation with a new patient. Like many people in middle age, Kimura-san had recently taken up running to help manage his weight. After successfully shedding a few pounds, he had decided to take the sport further and signed up for his first 5K run, and just like many of Iwaizumi’s other patients at Kimura-san’s age, grew over-eager; forgetting to do the proper stretches and not giving himself enough rest, and soon started to feel a dull pain in one of his knees.

“Okay, you can put your shoes back on.”

Iwaizumi rises from his stool. He steps back from the examination table to give Kimura-san space to put on his shoes, but also so he can’t catch the angry growl his stomach makes from not having eaten anything but a banana since the morning. He moves to take a seat behind his desk and opens his drawer, fighting the temptation to open the packet of rice crackers he keeps inside, and instead, takes out his prescription pad.

“I’m writing you up for an MRI,” he says, writing down the instructions. “You may have a minor quadricep tendon tear, so I want to take a look so we can see what we have to do.”

At the corner of his eye, he sees Kimura-san’s wince at the mention of a tear. “Will it require surgery?”

“Fortunately, most minor ones don’t,” Iwaizumi says, pulling the sheet off. “And given I don’t see any swelling and you’re not experiencing any buckling, with enough rest and the right stretches, it can be easily managed.”

“In the meantime,” he adds, his voice firm. It’s a voice he often uses on patients older than him, and coincidentally, his parents, when he tells them to cut down on their alcohol and late-night karaoke. He stands up to hand the sheet to Kimura-san. “No more running. Focus on stretches. And I recommend some easy yoga to keep the muscles moving, but nothing too strenuous.”

Kimura-san nods, shifting his jacket to hang over his other arm as he takes the prescription.

“You can schedule your test with the department secretary,” Iwaizumi continues, motioning to the department’s front desk just a few feet away from his office. “And as soon as you get the results, we can schedule an appointment to take a look at it.”

Kimura-san nods once more, his eyes reading through the prescription. While he has yet to say anything, Iwaizumi can already begin to recognize the considerate look on his face, the slight dip in his shoulders, the nervous bite on his lower lip. He’s seen that same body language in many other patients, and it often precedes them asking—

“Iwaizumi-sensei,” Kimura-san begins, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “What about… you prescribe me something? I just need to get through the race next week, and _I promise_ , I’ll follow what you’re saying after the race.”

Expecting this, Iwaizumi smiles and gives his well-practiced response, “I’m afraid a pill isn’t going to solve what’s happening with your knee, Kimura-san.“

Iwaizumi steps around his desk to walk him to the door. “So it’s better if we get to the root of the problem, and deal with it directly, to avoid it getting worse by masking it with medication.”

Kimura-san sighs, “If you say so.” They walk to the door and he pauses, turning towards Iwaizumi. “Oh, and sorry again for being late. I had to pick my daughter up from university.”

“It’s really no problem,” Iwaizumi says, opening the door for him. “Take care. See you when you have the MRI results.”

He returns Kimura-san’s polite nod as he leaves and stands by his door as he watches him walk toward the elevators. As soon as the elevator doors close, Iwaizumi checks his watch — and groans. 6:33pm. Which means the hospital cafeteria just closed for the day. His stomach follows up with a groan too. The cafeteria only served agedashi tofu on Tuesdays and he had spent the entire day looking forward to having some. Sighing, he steps back inside his office and takes a seat at his desk, pulling the drawer and finally taking out his rice crackers. He’s biting into one and scrolling through his phone to look through the usual places he orders dinner from when there’s a knock on his door. 

“So I’m guessing you missed the tofu?”

He looks up to see Mizuki leaning against his doorframe, a pitying look on her face.

“Yeah,” he says, finishing the last of his crackers and crumpling the wrapper in his hand. He tosses it into the bin. “Just missed it.”

She scowls. “That’s too bad. Well, I got you this.”

He glances up just in time to catch the tuna onigiri she tosses over.

“Thanks,” he says, leaning back on his seat as he unwraps it. 

Mizuki pushes herself off the doorframe and takes a seat in the chair in front of his desk.

“What time did you start today?,” she asks, inspecting his Godzilla paper weight. “You were already gone when I woke up.”

“Six,” he mumbles, continuing to scroll through the food delivery app. Did he feel like having omurice today? Or maybe some karaage. 

“Oh, yikes, early,” Mizuki comments, putting Godzilla back on his desk. “But you’re done for the day?”

His mouth full of rice, he nods in reply instead. Still undecided on what to eat, he puts his phone down and starts shutting down his laptop to pack up.

Mizuki claps her hands together. “Great! So you can run over to the supermarket because we’re nearly out of rice and sesame oil.”

While they worked in different departments — he, in physiatry, she, in internal medicine — they shared an apartment; an arrangement that began in their first year of medical school back in Fukuoka, when their landlord had mistaken her for a man and assigned them together, and the nearest available place at the same price range was a two hour commute away. And when they both decided to move to Yokohama — she, to practice closer to her family, he, to continue his specialization — they didn’t see the need to change things and go through the growing pains of learning how to live with a new person.

“Okay, I’ll pass by then.”

“And ice cream,” Mizuki adds, tapping on his desk.

“And ice cream,” Iwaizumi repeats, sliding his laptop into his bag as he glances at her. “Anything else?”

He pauses. His shift had started earlier today so when he had left their apartment she was still in bed. So it’s only now that he’s taking in her appearance — the floral dress under her white coat, the ornate pair of earrings at the same length of her coiffed bob. He raises an eyebrow.

“Why are you so dressed up today?”

“Why thank you, I’m glad you finally noticed,” she says, pleased. She gets up from her seat and waits in the hallway while he turns off the lights and locks the door to this office. He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder while she grins at him, her earrings swaying as she bobs her head excitedly. “I have a date tonight, so don’t wait up.”

“Oh, with who?”

“Blind date. A friend set me up,” she says, walking with him to the elevator. She fishes her phone out of her coat and scrolls through it before holding it up to show him a photo of her date. “All I know is that he’s part of the national fencing team.”

With a few months left until the Olympics and people from all over the world flying into Tokyo, in order to decongest the city, numerous national teams had set up training camps across other cities in Japan. With Yokohama being only thirty minutes away from the capital, the city was hosting a number of teams and their entourages, along with members of the press.

Coupled with the regular tourist season crowd, this meant the city was bustling with activity, a thrum of shared excitement and anticipation in the air. Restaurants were fuller than usual, the parks had more visitors, and in the mornings, the occasional team could be seen having their warm-up runs along the boardwalk or the riverside park, which meant a crowd of fans and locals who would stay to watch. It also meant, to Iwaizumi’s annoyance, more people on the trains and buses, thus more people on his regular commute home.

“Wow. It’s good he’s somehow managed to find time to date—”

Mizuki punches his arm.

“Ow!” he yelps, holding onto his bicep. “What was that for?”

“I’ve known you for years, don’t think I can’t pick up that judgey tone in your voice!” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. He laughs, not bothering to defend himself. “Besides, I don’t think practices have _officially_ started yet. People are just moving in, getting used to the city.”

He stops in front of the elevator and presses the button. A few seconds pass before Mizuki clears her throat. “You know…”

“No.”

She groans. “Hear me out at least! I can easily set you up. I _know_ for a fact that some of the residents are _still_ gushing over that time you played during the last sports fest.”

Iwaizumi hasn’t played volleyball since high school. Now, the only time he’s able to play is during casual pick-up games with old Sendai friends or the hospital’s yearly sports festival, where he’s been the captain of the volleyball team ever since he arrived solely because he’s the only doctor with actual competitive volleyball experience outside of PE classes.

The elevator doors open and he steps inside.

“Alright, enjoy your date,” he says, waving goodbye, and Mizuki reminds him about the ice cream one last time before the doors shut.

– – –

On the way to his bus, Iwaizumi stops by the supermarket inside the station to get their groceries. After getting the rice and sesame oil, he makes sure to get the ice cream, spending a few minutes standing in front of the frozen section to video call Mizuki so she can look at each available flavor and their calorie content before finally settling on pistachio.

He also buys a new pack of rice crackers for his office, his bottled coffee for tomorrow morning, and because he’s too tired to choose which restaurant to order from, another onigiri and his favorite brand of instant ramen for dinner. Mizuki has told him enough times that it’s embarrassing that he’s a certified doctor, twenty-eight years old, and still has a university student’s diet, but it’s a sentimental favorite; it’s the same instant ramen that powered him through university and his years of medical school.

After paying and packing the groceries, he exits the supermarket to head to his bus.

_“— because your skin deserves only the best protection!”_

Iwaizumi stops. He knows that voice.

He turns his head, but instead of a person, it’s an LED screen, and on it, Oikawa Tooru.

The commercial repeats; it’s an ad for DHC’s moisturizer with sunscreen. Oikawa is leaving his fancy apartment but makes sure to apply moisturizer before he leaves. It cuts to how the coverage lasts and his skin is still soft despite sweating through practice, matches, and even a pick-up game of beach volleyball. It ends with a shot of him in his black and red national jersey, holding up the product, and beneath him, the text reads, _“Oikawa Tooru – Captain of the Olympic Volleyball Team.”_

His eyes stay fixed on Oikawa as the commercial replays. All in all, Oikawa doesn’t look that different. But the years have sharpened his features; from the cut of his cheekbones to the definition in his jawline. While he looks to still have the same lean, imposing stature from when they played in high school, years of elite athletic conditioning have defined his muscles, obvious through the fit of his clothes and the flex of his thighs as he does his famous jump serve.

As Oikawa poses once again at the end of the commercial, Iwaizumi’s eyes linger on his face until he remembers he has a bus to catch, then runs before it leaves him. Fortunately, he gets there on time and takes an empty seat, setting his groceries down between his shoes. The bus pulls away from the station and while usually he would be using this quiet time of his day to scroll through his group chats and social media feeds to catch up on what happened while he was working, as he looks out the window, he finds his thoughts returning to the commercial, to Oikawa.

So Oikawa has finally achieved his dream of being captain of the national volleyball team. Was this recent or has he been captain for a while now? He imagines how Oikawa must have felt when he was told. He pictures him looking nervous, sitting on a chair in front of his coach, in an office that looks like Irihata’s office back in Aobajohsai. Then he thinks about how coincidental and even a bit funny it is to find out such big news through an LED screen in front of the train station supermarket he goes to nearly every day. But then again, it’s not like Oikawa would have told him. They haven’t spoken to each other for nearly ten years now.

Last he knew, Oikawa was still based somewhere in South America, accepting an offer there not long after he graduated university. And he can’t remember if he heard that from one of his get-togethers with Makki and Mattsun or if it was something his mom mentioned offhandedly during dinner in one of his visits at home. Oikawa’s family followed him to Tokyo not long after he started university and started getting endorsement deals, but he knew their mothers still kept in touch.

He knows all it would take is a quick search on the internet to be updated with what Oikawa’s been up to the past few years. He’s famous enough that it probably wouldn’t be that hard find out details on his personal life, who he’s seeing, what clothes he’s wearing, maybe even where he had dinner last Tuesday. But even if it has been nearly a decade, it’s still odd knowing that he now has to search for that kind of information, when he used to freely get it all the time, from Oikawa himself. Even during times where he was okay with not having to know, like in the middle of cramming a paper, or at three in the morning when all he wanted was to go to sleep but Oikawa would be going on about something that happened during the day or a thought that crossed his mind that he _had_ to share.

The traffic light turns red and the bus slows to a stop. He had woken up at five today, so he should probably close his eyes and doze off for a few minutes, but his mind continues to nudge at the image of Oikawa, slowly dredging up thoughts he believed he had long past moved on from; of how exactly he and Oikawa had just, well, stopped being friends.

As far as he could remember, it wasn’t a sudden turn of events. There wasn’t a dramatic, explosive end. They had chosen separate schools, he, in Fukuoka to take up medicine, and Oikawa had been scouted by the top school in Tokyo to play for their volleyball team. At first Oikawa had been upset he wasn’t going to continue playing volleyball, but he eventually accepted it, and those first few months apart were exactly as they promised to each other. They kept in touch every day, scheduled calls a few times a week or whenever they felt like talking to each other while they had their separate dinners.

But as they settled into their own separate lives, it wasn’t long until the time between replies grew from minutes, to hours, to sometimes no replies at all. Their regular video calls were postponed for something more important or something that just came up, until eventually they stopped rescheduling under the unspoken pretense that it was mutually forgotten. Oikawa’s family had moved to Tokyo by then, so there was no chance of seeing him during holidays in Miyagi, and Iwaizumi remembers, despite offering numerous times to visit him in Tokyo on the way home, either Oikawa would take too long to reply or he’d apologize and say he was too busy with the team, schoolwork, or the U-23 team.

And like replaying a movie he hasn’t seen in years, Iwaizumi remembers what he felt then; a confused combination of frustration, disappointment, and even hurt. Was he the only one who cared that eighteen years of friendship could just peter out like that? And why did it feel like he was the only one making the effort to keep it together? Was he just overreacting and it wasn’t something he should take too seriously? After all, that was what he wanted for Oikawa, right? To go after his volleyball dreams.

It took close to a year until he eventually came to accept that maybe it was just a part of growing up. And as he’s playing back his feelings now, he realizes it’s not frustration that he’s currently feeling anymore, but a resigned acceptance of, well, that’s how it is sometimes. These things happen; as you get older, your circle of friends grows smaller. People lose touch, priorities change, relationships don’t stay the same. The length of a friendship doesn’t determine its strength.

But maybe like everyone else these things happened to, he had thought it would be different for him and Oikawa. That maybe all those years together, their friendship weather through time and distance.

He’s so lost in thought that he almost misses his stop, realizing just as the last few passengers are getting off. He scrambles out of his seat, apologizing to the other passengers and the driver as he exits the bus. As soon as he’s off, his stomach grumbles, snapping him out of his daze and reminding him that he’s running on a banana, rice crackers and a tuna onigiri, so he quickly heads to his apartment. He’s standing in front of their door and in the middle of fishing his keycard out of his wallet and shifting his groceries to his other hand, when their neighbor’s door opens.

“Oh, Iwaizumi, are you just getting home now?”

He turns away from his door to quickly greet their neighbor with bow. “Ah, yes, Iriyama-san,” he says. “Good evening.”

Iriyama-san has been their neighbor ever since they moved in. A divorcée in her sixties, she lives by herself, but her children and grandchildren visit a couple of times a month. They know because she always gives them a plate of brownies after each visit to apologize for the noise they may have made.

She looks over his shoulder. “Oh, is Mizuki still at work?”

“Ah, yes, she’s,” Iwaizumi pauses. “… Overtiming again tonight.”

Iriyama-san shakes her head, the pink curlers in her graying hair bobbing side to side. “You both work so late,” she says, with accompanying _tsks._ “Like I tell my children, a couple should always try to have dinner together every night.”

She also thinks he and Mizuki are in a relationship, which, given her fondness for prying into people’s business, they never bothered to correct her on. Mizuki also fears that if they broke the truth to her, she’d think they had deliberately lied to her the entire time, and she would stop giving them brownies. They are, objectively, very good brownies.

He gives a small laugh as he presses his keycard against the lock. “Ah well, you know how it is, doctors always work late—”

“And what more when you have children!”

He pushes the door open with his shoe. “Oh, I think our phone is ringing!” he announces, giving her an apologetic smile as he quickly shuffles inside, the groceries knocking against the doorframe. “Sorry about that, Iriyama-san, good night!”

“Oh, good night!”

As soon as the door closes behind him, he leans against it and lets out an exhausted groan he feels he’s been holding in for the entire day. He also considers passing out on the floor and calling it a night, but remembers the pint of ice cream in the bag. He kicks off his shoes, shuffling over to their kitchen to empty out the groceries into the cupboards and fridge. He fills their kettle with water for his ramen and takes a quick shower while it boils. By the time he’s done, the water is just about finished, and after pouring it into the noodles he takes out his phone while he waits for them to cook.

**Iwaizumi Hajime:** Iriyama-san says you work too many late nights.

**Iwaizumi Hajime:** She says our future children will suffer.

**Mizuki Hana:** I am so sure that she waits by her door to hear when you come home.

**Mizuki Hana:** I think she has a crush on you.

He scowls at the thought, then sets his phone down to eat. He feels his muscles relax at the savory seafood smell alone, and by the time he’s cleaned up for bed, he still feels the warmth of his food throughout his body. As soon as his head hits the pillow he’s fast asleep, and his dreams are of volleyball and late night practices from a long time ago.

– – –

Iwaizumi’s phone rings, jerking him awake. He had put it on silent before going to bed which can only mean it’s the hospital. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes with one hand while the other moves around the bed in search for his phone. When he finds it, he lets out one big yawn before pressing it to his ear.

“Yes, hello?”

“Ah, Iwaizumi-sensei, sorry to call so late.”

It’s one of the evening nurses in the ER. He quickly pulls his phone away from his ear to squint at the clock. 11:38PM. He hasn’t been asleep for more than two hours.

“It’s fine,” he mumbles, stifling another yawn by pressing his face to his pillow. “What is it?”

“You see,” she pauses. “Ah, um, sorry to bother again, but we need you to come in. We have a… patient, in the ER. And we’ll need someone of your specialty to address it.”

“Oh, what’s wrong?” he asks, although he’s already getting out of bed. He pulls out a shirt from one of the drawers and looks around for his wallet. There’s already a set of doctors assigned to the ER during this time, so he knows it must be a special case if they need him to come in.

She pauses again, and he hears someone beside her, saying something he can’t catch. There’s a soft shuffling as the nurse returns to the line.

“Ah, sensei, you’ll see when you get here, um,” another pause. “I’m not allowed to divulge details over the phone.”

_What the hell?_

He wants to ask her why not, but he knows this nurse, and she’s never had this issue before. So it must have to do with whoever’s with her in the hospital.

“Okay, I’m on the way.”

It’s too late in the evening to take the bus, and given the urgency, he takes a taxi to the hospital and asks to get dropped off at the ER. He there in under ten minutes and checks his reflection at the glass doors to make sure he doesn’t look like he had just gotten out of bed. As he’s shrugging on his coat, he sees the nurse standing by the ER’s front desk.

“Oh, you’re here!” she says, rushing over to him.

“What is it?” he asks.

“The patient is waiting inside,” she says, pointing to one of the private rooms. She hands him the clipboard with the patient’s vital signs and personal information, and he’s about to scan through it but something about her body language feels off. There’s a smile she’s trying to keep from her face and she seems extra hurried as she leads him to the room. But instead of a nervous air around her, she seems more… excited?

“So what's the issue—” 

She opens the door and gently pushes him inside, and the conversation inside the room goes quiet. Iwaizumi clears his throat and straightens his back.

“Good evening,” he says, finally scanning through the patient’s information. Male, twenty-eight years old, healthy blood pressure and oxygen levels. Nothing out of the ordinary so far. “Sorry if you had to wait, I’m—” 

His eyes go back to read the patient's name and he stops.

He looks up from the clipboard.

_“Oikawa?”_

_“Iwa-chan?”_

– – –

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> — ‘-sensei’ is the appropriate suffix used for doctors, thus Iwaizumi’s patients referring to him as such.
> 
> — Nice to see the iwaoi fandom is still alive and kicking after all these years!


	2. Interlude (1.5)

– – –

It’s taken three days but Nakata Kenjiro believes he’s finally finished unpacking his things in his new apartment. He hadn’t brought much, after all, he was only renting the space for the duration of training camp. But consistent to the past forty-seven years of his existence, he liked to establish a sense of order wherever he went and would not be able to relax until he achieved it. This meant everything from making sure his fridge was stocked with the essentials (ie. alcohol) to making sure his new shower curtains matched his new bathroom rug.

Satisfied, he turns on his television, grabs a can of beer from the fridge, and sits down to catch up on a show he’s been putting off ever since he arrived in Yokohama. He brings the can to his lips to take a sip — when his phone rings.

He checks to see who it is, and predictably, it’s the same person who, for the past seven years, has consistently thrown a wrench into the order he carefully creates for himself.

He answers his phone.

“What is it, Oikawa?”

“I think I have to go to the hospital.”

Which is how Nakata finds himself wrenched out of his newly made apartment, unable to enjoy his can of beer nor the show he’s been meaning to catch up on, and instead, is in a hospital emergency room at close to midnight. And the first thing he does after ushering Oikawa into a private room is ask the nurse for a fax machine or printer.

Because as soon as he got the call from Oikawa, the first call he had made was to update his boss at their management firm. The second was to wake their in-house lawyer out of bed to draft up a non-disclosure agreement for anyone in the hospital who would be attending to Oikawa. Because now is not the time for this kind of news to come up. Aside from the hell that would break loose if word got out that the captain of the national volleyball team had to take a sudden trip to the hospital _right before_ _the Olympics,_ Oikawa is also in the middle of contract renewal negotiations with his team back in Argentina. News of a hospital visit would lose some of their bargaining power if the club assumes he’s not in excellent shape for the next few years.

All in all, as his boss summarized – _this shit can’t get out._

“C’mon, hurry up,” he’s urging the fax machine. As soon as the last sheet is out, he swipes it out of the machine and tracks the nurse who had logged them in. He sees her by the front desk, on the phone.

“Hi,” he says, standing in front of her. He slides the NDA across the counter. “I’m going to need you to sign this.”

She glances at the papers and gives him a flat look in return. “I don’t need that. I’m already not allowed to divulge any details about patients.”

Nakata waves a hand in the air. “Yeah, I’ve seen enough medical dramas, you’re not allowed to reveal any details of your patient’s condition,” He points back at the dotted line for her signature. “What _these_ papers are trying to say is that Oikawa was never your patient. He was never here.”

The nurse opens her mouth to reply but then she returns to the phone. “Ah, Iwaizumi-sensei, sorry to call so late,” she says, turning her back to him. “…But we need you to come in.”

“Oh, is that the doctor?” Nakata asks, taking out another NDA from his folder. “I have another set of papers for him to sign. Please, no details over the phone.”

She ignores him. “We have a patient, in the ER,” she says back to the phone. “And we’ll need someone of your specialty to address it—”

“Oh, right, and just making sure — he’s the best you have, right?” Nakata continues. “I know it’s late, but we’re not getting some kid fresh out of med school to treat _the captain of the national team?_ ”

She puts a hand over the phone. A weaker man would have shrunk at the glare she gives him, but not Nakata. As his grandmother once told him, what he lacks in talent and smarts, he makes up in persistence.

“The head of the Physical Medicine & Rehabilitation department is out of the country, so we’re having one of our senior residents come in,” she hisses. She turns back to the phone and her voice immediately softens. “Ah, sensei, you’ll see when you get here.”

Satisfied with her answer, he makes sure to point at the NDA on the desk one more time before looking for the other nurse that assisted them to their room. After tracking her down and having her sign the papers, he heads back to Oikawa’s private room. When he opens the door, Oikawa is sitting on top of the bed, his right leg stretched out in front of him. He’s leaning against the headboard and his chin is tilted up to the ceiling, his eyes closed as he breathes slowly. Nakata carefully shuts the door behind him and quietly makes his way to the visitor’s chair beside the bed. 

A few seconds pass before he throws his hands in up the air.

“Seriously. _What were you thinking?”_

Predictably, now is the time Oikawa chooses to stay quiet, his eyes still closed. Nakata glares up at him from where he’s sitting. “Training camp literally _hasn’t even started_ and you’ve already gotten yourself sent to the hospital?”

He gets up from his seat to pace. He can’t sit still when he’s getting worked up and imagining scenarios where this blows up everything they’ve carefully planned for the past few years. He turns back to Oikawa. “What happened to our talk about not rushing into things? Not pushing yourself too hard?”

Oikawa opens his eyes and even Nakata has to admit he’s taken aback by how they manage to look both tired yet incredibly determined.

“I know,” Oikawa says, his voice firm. “But I’m captain. I need to be the most prepared coming into this.”

Nakata narrows his eyes at him. “That’s what you said in the U-23s, then when you moved to Argentina, when you first made the national team, when are you going to—”

The door opens and he hears the doctor come in and start introducing himself.

Oikawa turns his head at the sound, almost like on instinct. And Nakata stops because it feels like Oikawa doesn’t even notice he’s still in the room anymore. The conviction in his eyes just seconds ago has disappeared, and now he just looks stunned, eyes wide, shoulders dropped in shock. It’s the most open he’s seen Oikawa in a very long time.

“Iwa-chan,” he hears him say, so softly that Nakata barely hears it and he’s standing right beside him.

_Who the hell is Iwa-chan?_

– – –

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So over the course of the story, I’ll have these mini-chapters/interludes through different characters’ perspectives. 
> 
> aka This is me indulging my love for outsider POVs and me being opportunistic by trying to squeeze them into my story haha


	3. Chapter 2

– – –

_“Iwa-chan?”_

Iwaizumi is frozen still, nearly dropping the clipboard in his hand. His eyes take in the real, non-LED screen Oikawa Tooru sitting before him. His brain feels like it’s on overdrive, trying to merge the Oikawa he remembers from when they were teenagers to how he looks now; an adult, with an equally stunned expression on his face, his leg stretched out on the hospital bed—

His leg stretched out. His right one. The same one from— _of course._ Oikawa is wearing black compression tights underneath his gym shorts, and a practice jersey with the national team’s logo printed on the sleeve. Which means he’s come from practice. This late at night. And seeing that it’s just Oikawa here, no worried team mates surrounding him, it doesn’t take long for Iwaizumi to piece together what had happened to him, and the initial shock swiftly fades and is replaced with a succinct feeling of frustration that he hasn’t felt for nearly ten years.

Iwaizumi narrows his eyes at Oikawa, and for a split second, he sees the same wide-eyed, guilty look Oikawa used to make when he’s caught doing something he was specifically told not to do, before it disappears. It seems he’s gotten better at masking it over the years.

He clears his throat and approaches the bed. “What happened?” he asks, turning to who he assumes is Oikawa’s handler or manager, from the way he’s hovering around him.

The man stretches his hand out, or rather, up, since he stands just above Iwaizumi’s shoulder.

“Nakata Kenjiro, Oikawa’s manager,” he says as he shakes his hand. He turns to Oikawa. “He was practicing his serves then fell awkwardly as he landed.”

“It doesn’t hurt a lot,” Oikawa hurriedly says, looking up at them from where he’s sitting on the bed. “I can tolerate it. I just wanted to make sure—”

“And besides, it’s nothing serious, right?” Nakata asks Iwaizumi. He has a look on his face that says if he could ensure Oikawa’s knee is fine through sheer force of will and determination alone, he would. “I mean, people trip all the time and it’s not like they’re career-ending falls, right?”

“We’ll need to take a look before we can conclude that,” Iwaizumi replies evenly.

He turns to face Oikawa for the first time only to see that Oikawa’s eyes are already fixed on him. He pauses. He doesn’t know if he should say ‘hi’ or what exactly would be the right thing to say in this situation, given their histories. From the look on his face, Oikawa looks to be thinking the same.

Iwaizumi clears his throat. “I’ll need to examine your knee, Oikawa—” then his brain quickly adds, “—san.”

As soon as he says it, he wants to take it back. It’s awkward to add, even for him, like he’s addressing Oikawa’s father, and he notices the way Oikawa’s eyes widen at the use of the honorific. But at the same time, he’s aware that after ten years of not speaking, they won’t be able to talk to each other as freely as they did before. And especially now, as his doctor. 

“Oh,” Oikawa says. Iwaizumi can practically feel Oikawa’s eyes taking him in, from his face, to his coat, like he too is processing that he’s there, processing their situation, before he drops his eyes. Oikawa clears his throat and sits up straighter on the bed. “Yes, of course you can… sensei.”

Iwaizumi nods, setting the clipboard down beside Oikawa. “Okay, I’ll need you to take off your compression tights first,” He motions toward the door. “I’ll step out while you change out of them. But you can keep your shorts on. I just need to see your knee.”

Oikawa nods obediently as Iwaizumi turns to leave the room. He closes the door behind him and leans against it. He uses this brief pause to will his brain to keep up with what’s happening and to reframe the situation. This is not a chance reunion with an old friend. This is a patient experiencing knee pain. But also, this is not any regular patient. This is an emergency consultation, for one of the most famous athletes in the country, months before the Olympics. There could be enormous repercussions should this be serious, and his career could be on the line if he makes a mistake.

In other words: _Get over yourself. This is a huge fucking deal._

He repeats this to himself as he checks his watch. He waits one more minute then opens the door. Oikawa is back on the bed, his now bare legs slung over one side. His compression leggings folded into a small pile beside him.

Iwaizumi picks up the stool by the corner and takes a seat in front of Oikawa. His head now level with Oikawa’s abdomen, he has to look up at him as he asks, “Where are you feeling the pain?”

Oikawa’s hands rest on the outside of his thighs as he looks down at him. He reaches down to point toward the inside of his knee.

“Here,” he says. “It doesn’t hurt that much. I could easily ignore it, but—I wasn’t feeling it before.”

Iwaizumi nods, inspecting Oikawa’s knee. From the outside, it looks fine. There isn’t any bruising or any visible swelling.

“May I?” he asks, lifting his hands from his lap to hover just above Oikawa’s knee.

“Yes, of course.”

To keep himself from having to bend forward too much, Iwaizumi pulls his stool closer, and Oikawa parts his legs wider to give him more space. Iwaizumi nods to let him know he’ll begin his examination, then carefully rests his hands on Oikawa’s leg, his left hand settling just above Oikawa’s knee, and his right cupping the firm curve of his calf. Immediately, he feels Oikawa’s muscles stiffen beneath his palms. He takes a quick glance up at him.

“I’m going to need you to relax, Oikawa-san.”

“Oh—right, sorry,” Oikawa sits up straighter and runs a hand through his hair. “Okay.”

Slowly, Iwaizumi feels the muscles in Oikawa’s leg ease. “Thank you.”

He lowers his left hand from Oikawa’s thigh to cup his knee, his thumb running along the jut of his kneecap to check for anything unusual. Nothing he can feel. He slides his right hand up Oikawa’s calf, checking for any tightness in the area, before tucking his palm at the juncture behind his knee. He gently presses his thumb against the spot Oikawa pointed to earlier, on the inside of his knee. As soon as he does, he feels Oikawa’s leg give a small jerk.

“Here?” Iwaizumi inquires, quickly easing the pressure off his thumb. He slowly runs his thumb back and forth along Oikawa’s skin and clasps his knee, feeling for any odd protrusions or swelling.

Above him, Oikawa nods. “Yes,” he murmurs. He clears his throat again then adds, “Only when I bend my knee or try to lift my leg up.” He repeats the motion for him.

Iwaizumi nods. “Anything else feel strange? Stiffness? Do you feel your knee locking when you walk?”

Oikawa shakes his head.

“Hmm,” Iwaizumi muses. He keeps his left hand on top of Oikawa’s knee, then slides his right hand further up the back of Oikawa’s leg to inspect his hamstrings, until it’s resting against his inner thigh, his fingers tracing along the lean muscle. Immediately, he feels Oikawa’s muscles tighten again and he hears him take a sharp intake of breath.

Iwaizumi looks up at him, concerned. “It hurts here too?”

“Ah—no, no,” Oikawa says hurriedly. His thigh muscles relax once more. His cheeks look flushed as he looks to the side. “I was just—I, sorry, um, your hands are cold. But don’t mind me.”

“Ah, sorry about that,” Iwaizumi apologizes. He takes his hands off Oikawa’s leg and rubs them together for a few seconds. After, he settles them back on Oikawa’s knee.

“Better?” he asks.

Oikawa nods, his eyes still focused on the mattress.

So the pain is isolated to the inside of Oikawa’s knee. He runs his thumb over Oikawa’s skin again, applying a soft amount pressure with his fingers to feel the muscles beneath them and if he’s missed anything. Convinced he hasn’t, he lifts his hands from Oikawa’s leg. He reaches for his clipboard and starts taking down his notes.

“It seems to be isolated to your inner knee,” Iwaizumi says, writing as he speaks. “I don’t feel any swelling and you’re not not experiencing any stiffness or locking. But if you’re feeling some pain as you bend and lift it, then I think you might have a minor meniscus tear. But we won’t be sure until we have an MRI.”

Oikawa nods. There’s a knock by the door. Iwaizumi looks back to see the ER nurse.

“The radiologist has just arrived,” she informs them. “We’re setting it up.”

“Great,” Iwaizumi says, pushing his stool back and getting to his feet. They aren’t typically able to call in a radiologist to perform an MRI so quickly, and this late at night; further evidence that Oikawa isn’t just a typical patient. He turns to Nakata, who had been oddly quiet the entire time he was examining Oikawa’s knee. “We can get that done and if they’re expediting the results, we’ll be able to know for sure what’s wrong by tomorrow—,” he checks his watch. It’s past midnight. “Later today, I mean.”

“But from what you saw,” Oikawa probes. “It doesn’t seem to be anything serious, right?”

The _“I’ll still be able to play in the Games?”_ goes unsaid.

“If it is a minor meniscus tear,” Iwaizumi answers, meeting Oikawa’s eyes before turning to Nakata. “Then he’ll need to rest for four weeks, six the most, and ease into practice.”

Oikawa drops his head in relief. Nakata let out a loud exhale and presses a hand to his heart.

“That’s great,” Nakata breathes, clasping Oikawa’s shoulder. “We can work with that. He’ll just miss the first few weeks of training camp.”

“But like I said,” Iwaizumi repeats, “We’ll need the MRI to know for sure.”

“Of course, of course,” Nakata says, nodding. He lets out another relieved sigh. He reaches forward and Iwaizumi fears he’s going to give him a hug until he settles a hand over his shoulder instead. “Meanwhile, sensei, what can we do about his brain?”

Oikawa glares at him. “What are—”

“How do we get it into his brain to ease off on the late night practices?” Nakata implores, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I’ve told him so many times he needs to relax more. Maybe you can tell him. Maybe he’d listen to a doctor.”

And it slips out before Iwaizumi can hold it back, “Believe me, I have.”

He winces as soon as he’s said it.

Oikawa’s eyes widen, the same time Nakata takes a step back and looks between the two of them. “Oh…? You two know each other?”

A beat passes before Oikawa replies, “We were best friends,” the same time Iwaizumi answers, “We were classmates,” and he feels a twinge of guilt when he notices the way Oikawa’s eyes flicker toward him at his response. But before anymore silence can settle, Oikawa lets out a light laugh. Iwaizumi is quick to note that at least his fake laugh sounds the same.

“Yes,” Oikawa continues. “We sort of lost touch, but what a coincidence to be seeing each other! Here, of all places!”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi agrees, trying to be helpful. “It’s, uh, quite a coincidence.”

“Huh,” Nakata muses, nodding. He’s still strangely quiet, and his eyes continue to look between the two of them, like they’re two pieces in puzzle he’s slowly beginning to solve. “I honestly wouldn’t have known from how formal you were talking to each other—”

His phone rings. “Oh, I have to take this,” he says, holding a finger up. “Give me a minute.”

Iwaizumi’s stomach drops at the forthcoming awkwardness of being left alone with Oikawa, but he can only watch as Nakata leaves the room. He closes the door as he steps out and Iwaizumi is staring after him, wondering if he can fake an excuse to follow and leave the room too. He glances at Oikawa, who, now without an audience, has grown quiet; eyes fixed on his lap, the bed, then everywhere else in the room. It’s clear he isn’t only one feeling the discomfort at their situation.

Iwaizumi clears his throat. Might as well start.

“Congratulations, by the way,” he says. “This incident aside, I mean. You did it.”

Oikawa stops looking at the wall to face him. “Hmm?”

“Ah, the Olympics,” Iwaizumi clarifies. “Making the national team. Being made captain. Uh, I heard.”

“Oh! Right,” Oikawa nods, laughing softly for not picking it up right away. He lifts a hand off the bed to motion toward Iwaizumi. “Thank you. And look at you, Iwa—” he catches himself, “Iwaizumi, a doctor!”

He nods. “Thanks.”

“Have you been living here long?”

“Yeah, past three years,” Iwaizumi slides his hands into his pockets because he’s suddenly conscious of the weight of them hanging at his sides and he’s unsure what to do with them. “Ever since I started my residency.”

“What are you practicing?”

“Physiatry,” Iwaizumi answers. When he notices Oikawa’s head tilt in question, he elaborates, “Physical medicine and rehabilitation. It’s not always sports-related. Sometimes it’s things like someone getting carpal tunnel from poor typing, or someone’s trying to move their muscles again after a stroke, or, accident…”

Understanding reflects on Oikawa’s face, and seconds pass before a wistful smile turns the corner of his lips. “So you didn’t fail halfway through medical school,” he says quietly.

Iwaizumi chuckles and is about to agree with the light jibe when an image of his bedroom back in Miyagi floats into his thoughts. It’s late afternoon, and his mother had called them for dinner and he had just called back telling her they could eat ahead because Oikawa was curled up in his bed, his sheets pulled over his face, refusing to look at Iwaizumi because he had just broken the news that he wouldn’t be joining him for university in Tokyo. And he wasn’t going to continue playing volleyball after they graduated.

“How could you just give up like that?” Oikawa sniffled, his shaking voice muffled by Iwaizumi’s sheets. But the _‘and give up on me’_ was clear.

Iwaizumi was sitting at the foot of his bed, the acceptance letter in his hands. He knew keeping his application from Oikawa had been a bad idea, but he wasn’t sure if he’d even be accepted. At the time, he hadn’t seen the point in mentioning something that might not even happen. And he kept putting off telling Oikawa until the letter arrived, and somehow, he got in the program, and all elation he had felt upon opening it was swiftly replaced with dread at the thought of finally having this conversation.

“I’m not giving up,” he mumbled, then paused. “Well, not exactly.”

He reached for Oikawa’s ankle, covered by his blanket, and squeezed it gently. “I just know I’ll be able to do more off the court rather than on it,” he admitted quietly.

He was self-aware enough to know he was telling it to himself too. He took a deep breath and looked up at his ceiling, at the fading, glow-in-the-dark stars Oikawa had stuck onto it years ago. As the sun set outside, some of them were starting to glow.

“Well, I don’t know, I’m still surprised I got accepted. Maybe I’ll end up failing halfway through medical school—”

Surprisingly, this was what got Oikawa to fling the sheets off himself. He sat up on the mattress, glaring at Iwaizumi with red-rimmed eyes, his thick brown hair sticking up in odd angles. He truly did have an unforgiving bed head.

“Of course you’re going to be a doctor,” Oikawa had said, his voice still shaking, yet somehow full of resolve. “It’s the only way I’m forgiving you for doing this to me.”

Iwaizumi remembers the relief he had felt at Oikawa’s words, because he knew that meant Oikawa was on his way to forgiving him. It would take a few more days, and a few loaves of milk bread, but things would get back to normal eventually. And aside from that, Oikawa’s words, and the fierce conviction in his voice as he said them, had felt like a soothing balm to the nerves that had started to grow in the pit of his stomach ever since he received the letter; the fear that maybe he was in over his head, trying to be a doctor.

Maybe he wasn’t sure of himself, but at least he knew Oikawa was.

He looks at Oikawa now, and slowly, shares his smile, knowing he too is thinking of that warm afternoon from many years ago.

He swallows, trying to think of a new question. “Are you… uh, still based in Brazil?”

Oikawa smiles. “Argentina,” he corrects politely.

Iwaizumi winces. “Oh, shit, sorry—”

The door opens and Nakata returns. “Okay, they said the MRI is ready,” he announces, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

He walks up to Iwaizumi. “Meanwhile, Iwaizumi-sensei, can I have your number? I’ve already gotten your schedule from your department secretary.” He opens the notepad app on his phone as he continues, “They told me you split your hours between here and a separate physical therapy clinic, right? That’s great. What days exactly so I can finalize how we’re going to go about this?”

Iwaizumi blinks. “Go about what?”

“We’re going to be needing you while Oikawa gets better,” he says, not looking up from his phone as he types. “We’ve already made the calls with the head of your department—”

“Wait, what?!” Oikawa asks from the bed.

Nakata sighs, impatiently looking up from his phone. “We’re trying to keep this under wraps, so we’re not pulling in any more people than we need,” he explains, turning to Iwaizumi. “So, congratulations, you’re a temporary physician with the Olympic volleyball team. But don’t worry, we know you’ve got other patients, so we’re not going to overload you. You’ll be focused solely on Oikawa and helping him get back to shape.”

“ _What?_ ” both Iwaizumi and Oikawa ask at the same time.

They look at each other before Iwaizumi turns back to Nakata. He shakes his head. “I can’t do that.”

There’s a pause. Nakata lowers his phone.

“Sensei, pardon my language,” he begins, his voice soft. “ _But why the fuck not?_ ”

He motions toward Oikawa like a professor pointing to his case study. “Olympic athlete. Pride of Japan? You’d be doing it for your country? Are you not Japanese—”

He’s pretty sure he hears Oikawa squeak. “Nakata—”

Unfazed, Iwaizumi gives him a blank stare. “I’m not a personal physician for hire. I have patients, a schedule. I have to align this with my department head.”

Nakata folds his arms over his chest. “You want to call him? Because we already did.”

There’s a smug confidence in Nakata’s voice that gives Iwaizumi a feeling it would be futile to argue. He glances at Oikawa, to say something, anything, but he looks as caught off guard as he does. He turns to Nakata. “Fine, let me check with him.”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Oikawa says, glancing at Iwaizumi before turning to Nakata. “This is unnecessary. Surely we can get someone else so we don’t have to bother him.”

Nakata uncrosses his arms. “What should make sense is we’re trying to fix,” he waves a finger in the air. “All of this. And keep it from going public.”

There’s a knock on the door, and the nurse steps back as they all turn to face her at the same time.

“MRI is ready,” she says, pointing outside. “Please follow me, Oikawa-san.”

Oikawa looks like he still wants to argue, but glances at the nurse waiting for him, so he eventually stands up. As he leaves the room, he sends a quick glance Iwaizumi’s way. Nakata follows after, but pauses at the door as he leaves. 

“So, see you at seven tomorrow to discuss the MRI?” he asks, a smile on his face. “We’ll send a car to pick you up.”

Iwaizumi’s scowl serves as his reply.

They leave the room, and once the door closes, his phone starts ringing. He takes it out of his coat pocket and his eyes widen when he sees that it’s the head of his department, who is currently supposed to be on vacation leave with his family in Paris.

He picks it up. “Yes, Buchou…”

– – –

After finishing his documentation and signing out of the emergency ward, it’s close to 1AM when Iwaizumi gets back to the apartment. And he’s woken up just five hours later by a call from Nakata.

“Morning!” Nakata greets, his voice cheery and somehow managing to sound like he’s running on a full night of sleep. “Car is on the way.”

Iwaizumi rubs his eyes as he replies, “Okay, got it,” but he thinks it comes out as a garble of syllables.

“Oh, try to eat before getting here,” Nakata adds, an apologetic tone in his voice. “Catering hasn’t arrived to set up yet.”

Iwaizumi hums in response, then puts his phone down. He turns over to settle on his back, closing his eyes and letting out a large yawn before staring up at his bedroom ceiling. He replays the events of last night in his head; seeing Oikawa on the hospital bed, inspecting his knee, the stilted conversation between the two of them. He cringes as he relives the embarrassment of mistaking where Oikawa’s been living the past few years.

He imagines other people would have been elated with having a surprise reunion with a childhood best friend. They probably would jump at the chance to reconnect, maybe quickly try to pick up where they had left off. But instead, the thought of spending time with Oikawa fills him with an unease he can’t fully explain himself. It feels like there’s some unknown, outside force pushing the expectation that they’re supposed to fall back to being Iwa-chan and Shittykawa again; that this is a chance they need to make the most of.

He figures they could, if they _both_ wanted to. But that’s the thing, he’s not sure if he wants to try to reconnect with Oikawa. And he’s not sure if Oikawa does either. After all, wasn’t he the one who stopped trying in the first place? Iwaizumi grimaces at his thoughts. So much for thinking he had moved on from the quiet dissolution of their friendship if here he is, blaming Oikawa, years later. They could try to be friends again, but if he thinks about how, he feels that same unease return. His mind grows blank, like suddenly being faced with the challenge of trying to recreate the steps to a dance he had long since forgotten.

Remembering Nakata’s call telling him a car is on the way, he pulls himself out of bed. He opens his bedroom door to see Mizuki having breakfast at their kitchen table, already dressed for work. The television is on and playing the morning news.

She looks up from her bowl of cereal as he stumbles his way toward her.

“Where were you last night?” she asks. She pushes her mug of coffee toward him as he takes the seat opposite from her. “You weren’t home when I got in.”

Nodding his thanks, he brings the cup to his lips. “Got called to the ER.”

“Oh,” she winces. She takes another spoonful of cereal. “That hasn’t happened in a while.”

“Yeah,” he takes another sip of the coffee. “How was your date—”

“Don’t ask.”

“Okay.”

He passes the coffee back to her. “I’ll make toast,” he mumbles, before letting out a yawn. He stands up and makes is way to their fridge, taking out the raspberry jam, butter, and the sliced bread.

“Why are you up so early then? Aren’t you supposed to be off today?”

He drops a slice of bread in the toaster and glances at Mizuki if she wants one. She nods and he places another slice in before turning the toaster on. “Yeah,” he mutters, leaning against the counter. He rubs a hand over his face and yawns. “Something came up.”

“Oooh,” she says, turning back to the television. “Sounds important.”

He hums in response as he glances at the television. The local news is covering the arrival of different national teams in Yokahama, waving at the cameras and their fans as they exit their buses. It then cuts to shots of teams setting camps in different arenas and facilities in the city, installing equipment, mowing the grass for field sports, even shots of chefs in industrial kitchens preparing food with very specific nutritional requirements. They then feature the fencing team having practice bouts, some track and field athletes doing their morning warm-us, and other sports doing some of their exercises. He’s waiting to see if they’ll feature the volleyball team when the toaster dings and their bread pops out.

He drops them onto a plate and takes a seat to start preparing his when he gets a message that the driver is at the lobby. Swearing under his breath, he hurries to his room, quickly puts on some clothes, and combs his hair. As he’s rushing out of his room and putting his socks on at the same time, Mizuki holds his toast up for him, prepared with jam and butter. 

“Thanks,” he says, grabbing it and holding it between his teeth as he puts on his shoes.

“See you later!” Mizuki calls as he leaves.

He finishes the last of his toast and wipes the crumbs off his face with the back of his hand by the time he gets to their apartment lobby. He quickly spots a sleek black sedan waiting by the main driveway. As he’s walking up to the car, the front passenger side’s window rolls down.

“Iwaizumi-san?” the driver asks.

Iwaizumi nods and the driver opens the back door for him. There’s a partition between him and the driver, so he doesn’t get to ask where he’s being taken to as the car starts. They don’t talk on the way to wherever they’re going, so in the silence, Iwaizumi thinks about how Oikawa has been back in his life for less than twelve hours and twice now he’s been jerked out of bed because of him.

Fifteen minutes pass when he decides to look out the window and he sits up straighter when he recognizes the towering glass walls of Yokohama Arena, the sunlight reflecting off the windows. In the three years he’s been living in the city, he hasn’t had an occasion to visit the area or go to any of its events. It’s one of the largest indoor venues in all of the Kanto region, so even he is awed as they get closer. Their car enters a special parking entrance and they go through a short series of tunnels until it opens to a large, inner driveway. He assumes this is where celebrities and artists must get picked up and dropped off for their events.

The driver tells him they’ve arrived, and as Iwaizumi leaves, he’s given instructions on where to go; which doors to open and which hallways to pass through.

Unfortunately, Iwaizumi is running on less than five hours of sleep, so after a few minutes of following the driver’s directions to the best of his ability, he finds himself in an indiscernible hallway leading to another indiscernible hallway.

“Shit,” he mutters, taking his phone out.

He’s in the middle of sending Nakata a text when he hears someone ask, “You lost?”

He looks up to see a young woman standing by one of the many doors, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

“Yes,” Iwaizumi admits, approaching her. “I’m trying to look for the clinic. Or physician’s area?”

“Oh, that’s on my way,” she says, smiling at him. She leans against the door to open it. “I’ll walk you there.”

“That’d be great, thanks!” He hurries to follow her, slowing down as soon as he’s caught up. Now that he’s walking beside her, he realizes she’s as tall as he is. He takes note of her light hair tied in a short ponytail, the practice uniform she’s wearing, and the national team’s logo printed on her duffel bag. It isn’t hard to conclude that she’s a member of the womens’ team.

She glances his way and he quickly diverts his eyes forward.

“Clinic, you say,” she muses, her eyes studying him in turn. “Are you joining the medical team?”

He isn’t sure to what extent of detail he can give about his arrangement with Oikawa and Nakata, so he settles with a lame, “Kind of.”

“Ooh, mysterious,” she remarks, a playful look in her eyes. “You’re a lot younger than the people they hire. They usually get people that are old enough to be my dad.”

“Oh, really?”

Although it’s not that surprising. For these high-profile and very public organizations, they either employed the most senior, most experienced medical professionals or if they were hiring someone younger, it would be someone whose training was already closely connected with their requirements and already closely associated to them.

“Yes,” The corner of her lip quirks up. “So, I’m guessing you’re very good with your hands?”

He feels his face warm at the innuendo. He also wasn’t expecting one at seven in the morning.

“Oh, uh—”

“Because you’re probably experienced with giving sports massages, right?” she smoothly supplies, winking at him. She stops and points toward a door a few feet away from them. “Clinic is through there.”

Iwaizumi clears his throat. “Oh, thanks.”

“See you around,” she laughs, giving a small wave as she continues down the hallway.

He follows her directions and soon finds the white walls of the clinic. A nurse greets him by the front desk and hands him an official ID — he notices they somehow procured his hospital ID photo — along with a lanyard with the national team’s logo. He’s instructed to wear it at all times whenever he’s in their facilities to make it clear he’s not just a civilian. After a short briefing about the clinic’s hours and procedures and who to go to if he has questions, he follows the nurse to one of the rooms.

The door opens and he sees Oikawa lying on one of the padded treatment tables. He’s leaning back on his elbows while a trainer in uniform helps him with his stretches.

Nakata turns around at the sound of the door opening. “Oh, you’ve made it!” he says, walking over to him. “Was thinking you got lost.”

Oikawa eyes turn toward the door, over the trainer’s shoulder, just as Iwaizumi mutters, “Yeah.”

“We got the MRI results,” Nakata walks over to a nearby desk to pick up a brown envelope with the hospital’s logo printed on it. He passes it to Iwaizumi. “Here you go.”

Iwaizumi takes out the scan and holds it up to the fluorescent lights for a few seconds, angling it to get a proper look at the image. He then takes out the other piece of paper in the envelope to read through the radiologist’s notes to see if they confirm his diagnosis. He feels a sense of relief in his chest — for Oikawa, and even for himself — when it does. It’s just a standard, minor meniscus tear. He puts the documents back in the folder and turns to see Nakata, Oikawa, and even the trainer watching closely.

“Yes, it is just a minor meniscus tear,” he says. “With the proper rest and therapy, everything should be back to how it was.”

Oikawa falls back on the table in relief. Beside him, Nakata takes a deep breath he’d been holding. “Okay, I can really relax now,” he breathes. He picks up a bottle of water and takes a long drink of water.

“We’ll need Oikawa-san to start wearing a brace right away,” Iwaizumi adds, handing the scans back to Nakata. “To limit the movement of the muscles in his knee.”

“Yeah, sure, we can get that.”

Iwaizumi walks up to the table where Oikawa is lying on. His right leg is stretched out while the trainer holds onto his foot, pulling it gently back towards Oikawa. The trainer looks up at Iwaizumi as he approaches.

“We’re doing some basic quad sets first,” he says. “We’re starting off with twenty on each leg.”

“Good,” Iwaizumi nods. “We can work it up to some leg raises and knee extensions.”

The trainer nods, releasing Oikawa’s foot before holding onto it again for another stretch.

“Perfect,” Iwaizumi affirms. “Lets work together to design his program.”

He glances at Oikawa to see he’s propped up on his elbows, watching the both of them. Iwaizumi greets him with a polite nod before he hears Nakata clear his throat.

“Sensei?” he calls from one of the offices. “I was thinking we could finalize your schedule?”

Iwaizumi nods and steps away from Oikawa and the treatment table to follow Nakata to the office. 

It doesn’t take long for them to come to an arrangement they can both agree on. To be fair to Nakata’s planning and meticulousness, he managed to find a way to work the plan into both Iwaizumi and Oikawa’s schedules, without too many inconvenient overlaps or interruptions. Oikawa would have his in-person sessions with Iwaizumi during the days he was at his physical therapy clinic, where his visits would be more private and where they could avoid the larger number of people in the hospital to lessen the chances of him being seen.

Nakata had come to an agreement with his department head to dedicate some of his required hours in the hospital to be spent at the arena and most of Iwaizumi’s day-offs remained untouched. And while Oikawa should be back in top condition in a month, a month and a half at most, they were signing him on for a three-month contract, just in case. He was even going to be compensated for the entire duration.

After reviewing the contract for the third time, Iwaizumi signs it. He hands it back to Nakata, who takes it with both hands, a proud, self-satisfied smile on his face.

“Told you it wouldn’t be so bad,” he comments, slipping the contract into an envelope. He claps his hands together and motions toward the door. “Do you want the tour?”

Iwaizumi gets up from his seat. “Oh, it’s not necessary—”

“I insist.” Nakata opens the door. “Oy, Oikawa, you done with your stretches? I’m taking your doctor friend for the grand tour. You coming?”

Oikawa had already finished and was putting his shoes back on. His eyes glance at Iwaizumi before looking back at Nakata.

“Okay, sure.”

He joins them as they leave the clinic, following just behind them as Nakata tells Iwaizumi which hallway and door to go through to get to the parking entrance or to the stadium exit from the clinic. They pass by the locker rooms next, and Nakata mentions there’s a separate locker room for the medical team and they’ll send his key and combination to his apartment in the next few days. Beside the lockers is the shower and sauna areas, with amenities that look more in line with a five-star hotel’s rather than an arena’s. There’s a sprawling indoor gym that occupies two floors, equipped with the latest machines and with natural light pouring in from the floor to ceiling length windows, overlooking the highway on the way to the arena.

They leave the gym and make their way down another concrete hallway, and it doesn’t take long for Iwaizumi to hear the familiar sounds of rubber soles squeaking against hardwood floors and the hard, solid slams of volleyballs after a firm spike. The tunneled hallway grows wider and soon they’re entering the main arena, and Iwaizumi’s jaw drops in awe as he takes in the rows of tens of thousands of seats and the stadium’s incredibly high domed ceiling. He feels tiny as he takes in how enormous the space is and imagines just how loud and thunderous it will be months from now when the games start, with each seat filled by an excited audience member cheering for their country.

“Yeah, it’s great, huh?” Nakata says beside him.

As they approach the court, the sounds and smells of worn rubber and sweat transport him back to high school. It almost feels like if he blinks, he’ll be back in Seijoh, calling the freshmen to line up for their drills. There are four volleyball nets installed, but it’s clear the floor area is large enough to accommodate more, if needed. Two are occupied by the mens team and the other two by the womens. His eyes fall on the court nearest to him, where members of the womens team are doing practice drills. He sees the young woman who helped him from earlier, lining up behind her teammates as they practice their spikes. Their eyes meet and she winks, giving him a small wave.

Iwaizumi raises his hand and waves back, just as a he hears a gruff voice say, “Iwaizumi.”

He turns around and his eyes widen. “Ushijima,” he says, looking up as he takes in his former high school rival. “It’s been a while.”

Ushijima nods. Years of high-performance athletic conditioning has made him look even more formidable and dour. “Yes, it has,” he agrees. “You look well.”

He glances at Oikawa and continues, “I never thought I would see you and Oikawa together again. Frankly, I’m surprised you two lost touch—”

“ _Okay, Ushiwaka_ ,” Oikawa swoops in between Iwaizumi and Nakata to place his hands on Ushijima’s shoulders. He quickly turns him around and starts pushing him back to the court. “You can go back to practice now. Go hit a ball or something—”

Suddenly, a high voice rings through the arena. “ _Is that… Seijoh’s Ace?_ ” the familiar voice exclaims, and Iwaizumi cringes at the old name. _“With the Grand King?”_

“I told him to stop calling me that here,” Oikawa mutters under his breath, narrowing his eyes as Hinata starts running up to them from the other entrance of the court, his shoes squeaking against the hardwood floor. 

“It is!” Hinata exclaims, skidding to a stop in front of them. His eyes are wide as he glances between him and Oikawa. “Reunited!! How??”

“Oy, Iwaizumi!” another voice yells, and he turns to see Bokuto, and even Kageyama, walking up to them from where the rest of their team are stretching.

“Senpai,” Kageyama greets, with a polite bow of his head.

“Hey guys,” Iwaizumi says, smiling as he takes them all in. “Wow, I feel like I’m back in Miyagi.”

It feels like any other day in a high school summer training camp. And the same time, it’s overwhelming to see so many familiar faces after so long, especially ones he’s played, beaten, and lost against. And he knows it would be incredibly petty to hold onto hard feelings after so long, but he’s filled with a pleasant warmth at the fond welcome, despite their competitive histories.

“What have you been doing these past few years?” Ushijima asks. “And what are you doing here, specifically?”

“He’s joining the medical team part-time,” Nakata answers helpfully, looking up as he speaks because he’s dwarfed by (nearly) everyone around him. “He’ll be helping out with Oikawa’s treatment and conditioning.”

“What?” Hinata’s jaw drops and his eyes somehow grow even wider. “That’s awesome!”

Bokuto turns to Oikawa and manages to wrestle his head under his arm. “What have you gotten yourself into now, _captain?_ ” he needles, as Oikawa fights to get away from his hold.

“Stop it, you brute!” Oikawa complains, finally managing to pull away from Bokuto. He shoots him a venomous look as he tries to fix his hair.

“So you’re part of the team?” Kageyama asks.

“Just for the next three months, at most.”

“Okay, now that you’re part of the team, you need to join us for drinks tonight,” Bokuto declares, roughly slinging his arm over Iwaizumi’s shoulder. His knees nearly buckle from how strong Bokuto is now. “We were planning to go out because it’s been a while since the Miyagi boys are complete again, so you have to join us.”

At first, Iwaizumi considers asking if he can join the next one instead because he has a shift tomorrow. He also picks up on the uneasy look on Oikawa’s face as he watches his teammates crowd around him. But then beside him, Kageyama nods and says quietly, “Please join us, senpai,” and he feels his resolve cave as he remembers the quiet kid from middle school asking if he could help him practice with his serves.

He’d have to learn how to deal with Oikawa anyway. Might as well start now and catch up with childhood friends while he’s at it.

Iwaizumi smiles. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

– – –

They agree to meet at eight later that night, to give them enough time to wash up and change after their practice. Since Iwaizumi is from the area, they had asked for his recommendations on where to have drinks. He had suggested one of the bars he often went to with his colleagues; it was a manageable walk from the hospital and on his route to his apartment. And because it was located by the boardwalk, after a night of drinks, he always enjoyed stepping out of the bar and feeling the ocean breeze cool his warm face. 

He spends the rest of his free day finishing errands and even manages to spend some time in the afternoon to catch up on sleep. When he arrives at the bar by eight, the place is comfortably full of office workers and employees relaxing after work. He spots some doctors from the hospital seated by the door that opens to the veranda. They greet each other with nods as Iwaizumi makes his way to the bar. He orders a half pint of beer and while the bartender fills his glass, he scans the place for his friends.

He sees them seated by the far wall on one of the long tables with the bench seats. Bokuto, who looks to already be on his second round, spots him first and waves him over. After thanking the bartender and paying for his drink, Iwaizumi steps through the crowd until he’s at their table.

“You made it!” Bokuto greets. “Great place by the way, love the vibe.”

“Thanks,” Iwaizumi sets his beer down on the table as he slides into the bench. He sits across Bokuto and in the empty space beside Kageyama.

“This place is pretty nice!” Hinata comments. He’s sitting on Kageyama’s other side. “Do you drink here often?” he asks, as he helps himself to the calamari. He offers the plates of rice crackers and seaweed tempura to Iwaizumi.

Iwaizumi nods. “Yeah, sometimes, with other people on the hospital,” He picks up some rice crackers. “Mostly before the weekend or the day before most of us are off from work.”

Ushijima, across from him, takes a sip of his whiskey. “I’ve been here for the past few days and Yokohama feels… different from Tokyo.”

“Yeah, it’s more laid back, huh?” Bokuto agrees, taking a fistful of rice crackers and popping them into his mouth. “I’m kinda liking it.”

Iwaiuzmi nods. “Yeah, that’s what I like about the city.”

While Yokohama is only a thirty minute train ride from Tokyo, all it takes is a day in the city to realize how different it feels from the country’s capital. Historically, it was one of Japan’s first port cities, opening the country to the rest of the world, which explains the city’s unique culture and mixture of Western brick architecture and its lively Chinatown.

Aside from that, if Tokyo is all metropolis, dwarfed by towers and high-rise buildings and bustling crowds rushing to get to their next stop, Yokohama manages to take the capital’s skyscrapers and blend it with the laid-back attitude of a seaside city. One of Iwaizumi’s favorite things to do after a long day of work is take a walk along the city’s waterfront, letting the sound of the ocean’s waters calm his tired nerves, while the city’s ferris wheel lights up the skyline in neon colors.

Iwaizumi takes another sip of his drink and scans the table to realize they’re missing one person. Did Oikawa decide not to join them?

Noticing it, Kageyama says helpfully, “Oikawa wanted to go back to his apartment to change first.”

“But he didn’t even join practice today,” Hinata thinks out loud as he finishes the calamari. “So he wasn’t even sweating…”

And as if on cue, they hear the sound of women squealing by the bar’s entrance, and they look back just in time to see Oikawa enter. While everyone else in the team clearly looks like they came from practice and a shower — Bokuto’s hair is still even a bit wet — Oikawa looks like he’s heading for an expensive summer menswear pictorial, complete with his natural-but-perfectly-fixed swept hair. He spots their table and makes his way to them, stopping first to take a picture with some of the other customers, then by the bar to order a drink for himself before pointing to where they’re seated.

As he nears, Iwaizumi checks to see if their table still has space for Oikawa or if he needs to ask for a chair. At the same time, Kageyama shuffles to the side to give the space beside Iwaizumi to Oikawa.

“Oh,” Oikawa pauses, glancing down at the space opened for him. He gives Kageyama a sweet smile as he takes a seat. “Thank you, Tobio-chan.”

“You’re really going out of your way to make us look bad, huh?” Bokuto huffs, reaching over the table to ruffle Oikawa’s hair.

Oikawa balks, easily dodging Bokuto’s hand and pushing it away. “Just because you look like an owl doesn’t mean you have to dress like one,” he counters easily, in his sing-song voice.

“Excuse me.”

A waitress appears by their table and they watch as she serves Oikawa’s drink. It looks refreshing, made with a kind of sparkling alcohol, ice, mint leaves, and slices of lemon. It’s also very, very pink.

“Woah, what is it?” Hinata asks, his eyes wide.

“A pink fizz,” Oikawa replies smugly, enjoying the attention.

“Are you even allowed to have that?” Kageyama asks flatly, eyeing Oikawa’s drink.

Iwaizumi is thinking the same; he’s sure these guys must be on a strict diet most of the time and he doubts high-sugar alcoholic drinks are allowed. It seems Oikawa’s sweet tooth hasn’t disappeared.

“You drink your boring beer, Tobio,” Oikawa answers smoothly. He holds onto the straw and they watch in a mix of awe and dismay as he takes a satisfied sip. “I drink what I like.”

“So, Iwaizumi,” Ushijima asks. He’s sitting across the table so Iwaizumi has to turn his head to face him. “Are you married? Do you have children—”

He’s shortly interrupted by the sound of someone choking. They turn to see Oikawa in the middle of a coughing fit; beating his fist against his chest as he coughs, his eyes watering and his face growing red. Immediately, Iwaizumi runs a hand over his back to help him with his breathing. He’s not sure if it’s because of the doctor in him instinctively rising to the call of duty to help someone in need, or if it’s a latent reflex from the years he spent looking after Oikawa whenever he got himself into stupid situations. It must be the latter because he’s also trying his best to control himself from laughing at how bad he looks right now.

“Are you okay?” he asks instead. But he’s having a very difficult time keeping a smile off his face.

“Yeah,” Oikawa wheezes, waving a hand in the air and trying to turn away from him. He coughs again but his face is slowly turning back to a normal color. “D-don’t mind me. Went down wrong.”

Iwaizumi rubs his back one more time before he turns to Ushijima, and even Ushijima can’t keep the amusement out of his eyes at the sight of Oikawa losing his composure over a wrong sip of his drink.

“Anyway, no, not married,” Iwaizumi answers. He takes a sip of his beer. “Dated in college, but didn’t last through med school, unfortunately.”

“And no one recently?”

“Well, there was another doctor when I first moved here, but she had to move back to Kagoshima.”

Bokuto winces. “Long distance is a bitch.”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi shrugs. “I guess I’ve been too busy to date since then.”

Ushijima nods. “Understandable,” he says. “How do you know Tomu by the way?”

Iwaizumi scrunches his eyebrows. “Tomu?”

“The wing spiker of the womens team. I saw you waving at her earlier in the arena.”

Understanding quickly catches up to Iwaizumi as he remembers her face. “Oh, right, no, no, I don’t actually know her,” he clarifies. “I was lost on my way to the clinic and she just gave me directions.”

“Oh,” Ushijima nods. A contemplative look passes on his face before he continues, “I can introduce you to her, if you like. A doctor makes you a very promising prospect. And since you previously played the same position, I believe that’s good common ground to start a relationship.”

Iwaizumi blinks, his brain trying to process Ushijima, of all people, offering to set him up with someone, and in such a straightforward, no-nonsense manner. But before he can reply, Oikawa, who had been quietly sipping his drink during the entire conversion, noisily places his already-empty glass on the table and picks up the menu.

“ _Does anyone want karaage?_ ” he offers loudly, looking around the table as he holds the menu up. “Chibi-chan? Tobio, pickled cucumber? I know you like that—”

“No, I don’t—”

“You know what, I’ll order both!”

He quickly calls for one of the waitresses to order the food and another drink for himself, and the conversation promptly moves on.

“Wow,” Hinata says. “So if we’re all not dating anyone, I guess we’re all be going to the Olympic gala together then.”

This makes Bokuto turn to Oikawa, just as his drink arrives. “Wait, _you’re_ not going to bring a date?”

“Excuse you, I’ll have no problem bringing a date to the gala,” Oikawa scoffs. “But if you mean if I’m dating anyone _specifically_ ,” He shrugs as he holds onto his straw and takes a careful sip of his drink. “How can I, when I’m too busy being the captain of my team back home, and when I get here, I need to captain you guys.”

Hinata scratches his head. “I thought I saw a post of you having dinner with that actress…”

“Oh, we’re just friends,” Oikawa says smoothly.

Iwaizumi is honestly quite surprised that Oikawa isn’t dating anyone, when back in high school, he was juggling girls and dates and confessions three at a time. Having a girlfriend was another matter, sure, he never was able to go more than three dates with a girl until he grew bored or until she realized she’d never be able to compete with his priorities (namely, volleyball). But there was always someone new or lined up to replace the last one to take up Oikawa’s free time.

“That’s surprising,” Iwaizumi remarks, making Oikawa glance at him. He takes a sip of his beer and shrugs. “You were always dating someone back in school. I can’t imagine you not dating anyone now.”

An embarrassed flush appears on Oikawa’s cheeks. His eyes are fixed on his drink as he takes another sip. “Well, people change. The things they want change,” he says evenly. “And they get busy.”

Iwaizumi nods. “That last one, I can agree on,” he says, tilting his glass over to Oikawa.

Oikawa glances at him before tentatively clinking his glass against Iwaizumi’s. They share a small smile before they take a sip. Iwaizumi finishes his beer and motions for one more to a nearby waitress. When he turns back to the table he asks, “So what’s this opening gala?”

“The Olympic committee is having a formal dinner for all the teams in Yokohama,” Kageyama answers. “As they start their training camps.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Everyone is required to attend. Even those in the medical team.”

“To put it plainly, it’s a very expensive way of saying good luck,” Ushijima says, finishing the last of his beer. He motions to order another.

The conversation shifts easily to other things, from how training went today, how their respective seasons went, to Hinata telling stories of his time in Brazil. They update each other how their teams are doing back in Miyagi, and Iwaizumi catches the eye-roll Oikawa doesn’t even try to conceal when Ushijima mentions Shiratorizawa winning the latest high school season.

Noticing the food is almost finished, Iwaizumi stands to order more by the bar and to get another beer for himself. Kageyama joins him to refill his and Hinata’s. They lean against the counter as they wait for their orders, Iwaizumi taking a sip of water he had asked for.

“So where are you playing now, Kageyama?” he asks, setting the glass down.

“Italy,” Kageyama replies, picking at the bar nuts in front of him.

“Wow, that sounds exciting. So how’s it been?”

Kageyama shrugs. “Lonely, at first,” he answers, brushing his hands together to rid them of salt. “But not so bad now that I’m getting better at Italian.”

Their drinks arrive and they take a sip in silence as they wait for the food. As he observes the froth in his glass, Iwaizumi ponders on Kageyama’s answer. He pictures him, alone, in an indiscernible locker room, in a foreign country surrounded by people speaking a language he doesn’t understand. But instead of the adult Kageyama standing before him, in his mind, it’s the smaller, earnest kohai from middle school.

Iwaizumi realizes it’s instinctive to respond to news of friends moving to foreign countries with admiration and pride, but it’s easy to forget how hard and lonely the adjustment period must be for them. As he takes another sip of his drink, his eyes observe the crowd in the bar until they find themselves on Oikawa, who’s on his third drink and rolling his eyes at a joke Bokuto had just made. From what Iwaizumi has picked up from the stories Oikawa shared, he must be happy where he is now and he seems to love his team, but he wonders how it must have been for him to move abroad not long after graduating; a kid fresh out of college, still trying to figure who you are and where you stand in the world, only to be uprooted and expected to flourish in a new one.

Their orders arrive and Kageyama helps pick up some of the plates, but before they go Iwaizumi stops to settle a hand over his shoulder.

“I’m happy for you, Kageyama,” he says, smiling at him. “I’m not worried about you. Knowing you, I’m sure you’ll do well over there.”

Kageyama looks at him with wide eyes, and a slow blush creeps on his face. He drops his head and nods. “Thank you, senpai.”

They return to the table with their drinks and food, and Bokuto and Hinata automatically dig into the chicken and dried squid. The conversation picks up once again as they recall stories of summer training camps and laugh about ones they had forgotten, like the time Bokuto spent the night in the toilet after eating too much meat from one of their barbecues. Or the time Oikawa had snuck back late at night after seeing a girl from the other camp, only to be caught by one of the coaches so he had to spend three days cleaning the bathroom as punishment.

It’s nearing ten when Iwaizumi checks his watch and decides it’s time for him to leave.

“Sorry guys, I have to go ahead,” he says, finishing the last of his beer.

They groan about him leaving so soon but he explains he has a shift in the hospital tomorrow, and his first consultation is at seven with a patient that always arrives thirty minutes ahead of time.

“Wow, you must be a really good doctor, senpai,” Kageyama says, as Iwaizumi takes his wallet out to pay for his orders.

Iwaizumi feels his cheeks grow warm, taken aback by the open admiration in Kageyama’s voice.

But the brief silence is interrupted as Oikawa snorts loudly, “I always knew Tobio-chan had a little crush on Iwa—izumi.”

Hinata is laughing as Kageyama turns a deep red, trying to sputter out his reply, and maybe Oikawa’s pink drinks are stronger than they look because Bokuto finally manages to reach over and get a hand in his hair to ruffle it.

“Don’t mind him, Kageyama,” Bokuto reassures. “Iwaizumi was a catch in high school, I’m _sure_ you’re not the only one that had a crush on him.”

Oikawa swats Bokuto’s hand out of his hair and glares at him.

Now it’s Iwaizumi’s turn to grow embarrassed. He quickly sets his money on the table and slides it to the center. “Alright, see you guys,” he says, standing up and swinging his foot over the bench.

He’s about to head to the door when he pauses, turning back to look at Oikawa. “You,” he points at him for emphasis. “Need to rest. Keep your weight off your knee.”

Oikawa looks away sheepishly as he mumbles, “Yeah, I’ll leave in a bit too.”

A chorus of farewells and see you laters follow Iwaizumi as he leaves. As he steps out of the bar and starts his walk to the bus stop, he recalls Kageyama’s words, and the admiration in his voice, and he’s caught off guard by the warmth he feels growing in his chest. He realizes, surrounded by his old friends turned Olympics athletes, for a sport he chose to turn away from, it’s nice to remember he’s also managed to accomplish something noteworthy for himself.

He smiles to himself; a night catching up with old friends and the cool sea breeze brushing against his warm, alcohol-flushed cheeks. Maybe the next few months won’t be so bad.

– – –

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> — I firmly believe that back in middle school, Kageyama (along with all the other juniors in their team) totally thought Iwaizumi was the super cool senpai and idolized him and looked forward to setting up an attack for him and wondered why the heck he liked hanging out with human trash Oikawa lol


	4. Interlude (2.5)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes!
> 
> — I've planned out this story to be around 12 chapters, give or take. 
> 
> — I've also indicated in the tags that the rating will go up later in the story, should that affect your desire to read it. But since I totally forgot to mention it at the start and I'm only saying it now, four parts in already, I'll properly indicate at the start of each chapter when those parts begin and end.
> 
> — I just realized the chapter count and naming is so confusing cuz of these interludes and AO3 automatically numbers them lol I've tried to rename them to give them a sense of order. But really, it's just the third 'chapter' after this.

– – –

Ushijima’s seat is facing the door, so he’s able to watch as Iwaizumi makes his way to the exit. This also places him across Oikawa, so when the doors close after Iwaizumi leaves, he doesn’t even have to turn his head to watch Oikawa discard his straw and down the last of his third, possibly fourth, drink that night.

Oikawa sets the empty glass on the table and with a deep, shuddering breath announces, “I need something stronger.”

Bokuto and Ushijima exchanges glances. Oikawa leans back on the bench, one hand gripping the edge of the table to keep himself steady. His eyes meet one of the waitresses and he charms her with an easy smile as he orders whiskey; 25 years, single malt, neat, make it double. When his tumbler promptly arrives and is set in front of him, before he can hold on to it, Ushijima picks it up from his reach and pulls it closer to himself.

“I think you should have water,” he suggests, pushing his glass of water toward Oikawa.

Oikawa narrows his eyes at him. “I think,” he repeats dryly, trying to get his whiskey back but failing. “I would like my drink.”

When Ushijima doesn’t relent, he says, defensively, “I’m not even drunk.”

“On the way there though,” Bokuto laughs. He reaches over for Oikawa’s whiskey and takes a sip, wincing as it goes down.

Without a drink to distract him, Oikawa picks up his fork and reaches for a piece of karaage. But he stops halfway, like he’s remembered something. He scowls and sets his fork back down. “I can’t be eating this stuff,” he mutters to himself, taking a sip of water instead.

Bokuto raises his eyebrow at the four empty cocktail glasses sitting beside Oikawa but decides not to say anything. He picks up a piece of chicken and pops it into his mouth. “Why so quiet today, captain?” he asks nonchalantly.

Oikawa _has_ been uncharacteristically reserved today, spending more time focused on his drink rather than being his usual, center of attention, self. During the rare times they found time to get together for drinks, or even just any time they went out, the highlight of every occasion was usually wherever Oikawa was, and if everyone in the room wasn’t already paying attention to him or fighting with each other for his, he’d always find a way to draw all eyes to him whether deliberately or not.

Even now, Oikawa doesn’t reply to Bokuto’s question. Instead, he’s holding Ushijima’s glass tightly in his hands, staring intently at the water. Bokuto starts to lean over to prod him when suddenly Oikawa lets out an anguished sigh and visibly deflates; his shoulders sinking as he drops his forehead onto the table. Hinata shoots a panicked looked at Kageyama, who only shrugs in response and takes another sip of his beer, clearly accustomed to his senior’s theatrical tendencies.

“What am I going to do,” Oikawa whimpers to himself, each syllable pronounced and dragging at the end, but barely audible with the noise of the bar and his face pressed against the table.

Not hearing him, Hinata cheerfully finishes the last of the chicken and tries to bring up a lighter topic. “Must be nice seeing Iwaizumi again after so long, huh?”

But this only makes Oikawa let out another distressed whine, his face still pressed against the wood. Kageyama shoots Hinata a glare that effectively says, “Must you really?” to which Hinata’s eyes widen as he silently mouths, “What did I say?”

Ushijima observes the scene before him and takes a sip of whiskey. He has to acknowledge Oikawa’s order; it does go down very smoothly.

“Hmm,” he muses.

Like he has an antenna attuned to everything Ushijima says, Oikawa lifts his head from the table. He narrows his eyes at him.

“I know what you’re doing,” he accuses, pointing a finger at him. “Stop analyzing me.”

“I’m not,” Ushijima says, which is true.

Analyzing would imply he’s been thinking long and hard about the cause of Oikawa’s uncharacteristic distress. But really all it took was once glance at Iwaizumi back in the arena. 

“Finish your water,” he says instead. “Let’s call it a night.”

– – –

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not every chapter will have an accompanying interlude, I just wanted to write this fun snippet to see another side Oikawa because when we're in Iwaizumi's POV, he's all (trying to be) cool and composed but... c'mon, he's Oikawa. :P


	5. Chapter 3

– – –

Iwaizumi and Mizuki step out of the curry restaurant, their stomachs full and their clothes smelling of fried pork and spices. Since they both found themselves with a rare, relatively free schedule today, they had agreed to meet up for lunch.

“What time is it?” Mizuki asks, taking out the small bottle of perfume she kept in her bag.

Iwaizumi checks his watch. “12:55.”

“I don’t have anything until two,” she says while giving her hair and clothes a few spritz of perfume. “Coffee?”

He nods. He’s working at the therapy clinic today and his next appointment is also at 2PM, and after that, he’s having his first session with Oikawa. They walk to a nearby café and take a seat outside while they wait for their orders. A few tables away from them is a young couple that look to be in college, a textbook open between them as they share a laugh at something on the man’s phone. Iwaizumi notices Mizuki watching them before she scoffs and looks away. 

Their orders arrive and she takes a sip of her iced latte. “My mom checked up on me yesterday.”

“Oh,” Iwaizumi looks up from his coffee. “How is she?”

Despite knowing Mizuki for seven years now and living together for the entirety of that time, he still hasn’t met her parents. They also don’t know that they live together, with Mizuki easily able to side-step every request they have to visit the apartment or planning around their visits so Iwaizumi is always out of the apartment when they’re there. She explained to him early on that her mom is still very traditional and would ‘have a heart attack’ if she found out she was living a man she wasn’t married to.

“Good,” she says evenly, setting her glass down. She picks her bag up from the table and pulls out the pack of cigarettes she kept in it. As she takes one out and lights it, she continues, “As usual, she asked if I’ve found anyone yet.”

Iwaizumi hums in response. He takes a sip of his coffee as he watches her. He’s known Mizuki long enough to know the tells and verbal cues for when she’s holding herself back from saying something, and experience has taught him the best thing to do is to wait for her to say it. She lifts her latte and takes another sip, before setting it down loudly, the coffee nearly sloshing over the side of the glass, and earning the curious looks from the nearby couple.

She looks out at the street as she lets out an angry huff. _“It’s so annoying.”_

She points her cigarette at him. “You’re what, twenty-eight? And when people find out you’re a doctor, and that you’re single, everyone’s like,” she raises her voice as if she’s imitating someone, “’Oh, what a catch! Perfect husband material!’”

Her shoulders drop as she gives him a flat look. “You know what they tell me?”

He shakes his head. “What?”

She crosses her arms over her chest and says dryly, “’Oh, you must be so busy.’”

Iwaizumi scowls.

She throws her hands up in the air. “I know right?” She holds her fingers out as she counts, “I’m cute, I’ve got a sense of humor, I know how to treat pulmonary hypertension, but no, their first impression is—I must be so busy if I’m still single at twenty-eight. Like I’ve got to realign my priorities.”

Mizuki rolls her eyes and takes another puff of her cigarette. “And it’s not just the guys I’ve dated, you know? It’s my mom, some of my patients…” She blows the smoke to the side and mutters under breath, “It’s so unfair.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t know what to say to make her feel better, but he knows not to dismiss the unfortunately, very valid issue. “I’m sorry you have to go through that,” he says, hoping it’s a suitable enough response. “You know you’ve accomplished way more than that.”

Mizuki waves a hand at him, the smoke wafting through the air. “You don’t have to apologize,” she mutters. But slowly, she cracks a smile at him. “But okay, I’ll take that as an apology on behalf of your kind.”

“Yeah, we’ve got a lot to apologize for.”

She chuckles, leaning back on her chair as she sighs. She sets her elbow on the armrest to prop her cheek against her hand. “Thanks for listening though. I feel better now that I’ve gotten it off my chest.”

Her eyes turn to Iwaizumi, taking him in. “You know,” she begins. “You don’t look like it, but you’re actually a really good listener.”

Iwaizumi scrunches his eyebrows. “What, really?”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding. “You said like, what, two words? And you got me to have a feminist rant at one in the afternoon. No alcohol necessary.”

Iwaizumi takes a sip of his coffee. As he inhales the comforting aroma, he ponders on her words. He’s never thought of himself as a listener type, but he knows that’s he’s never been a talkative type either. It’s probably because all his life, he’s somehow found himself in the company of people who would say enough for him; his mother, Oikawa, now Mizuki.

_And now, Oikawa again,_ his brain supplies. At the thought of Oikawa, he suddenly remembers the gala.

“Oh, by the way, do you want to come with me to the gala next week?” he asks, setting his coffee down. “You might have fun.”

Mizuki sighs. “Tempting. But it’s our section head’s birthday that night, so I need to go to that,” She winks at him she brings her cigarette to her lips. “You need to learn a thing or two on how to suck up to your boss.”

Iwaizumi scowls. Of course he’s not going to say no to his boss when he calls for drinks, but he’s not going to be the one to go out of his way to offer first, or plan his birthday party for him.

Mizuki finishes the last of her coffee. A slow smile forms on her face. “Look at you,” she muses. “Going to a _gala_ and everything.”

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t have any choice. Apparently it’s mandatory.”

“No, I mean, it’s exciting though,” she continues. “This whole thing you’ve got going on now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, the whole part-timing for the volleyball team,” she elaborates, waving her cigarette in the air. “Going to galas, meeting old friends, new experiences.” She playfully looks away as she mumbles under her breath, “Your life was getting kind of boring.”

Iwaizumi narrows her eyes at her. “My life was not getting boring.”

“Okay, not boring,” she concedes, holding her hands up. She leans forward to put her cigarette out. “But… routine? Work, home, hang out with me, supermarket, sleep, work again. I’m just saying it’s nice you have something new to spice things up a bit.”

“I’ve been—”

“And you can’t say busy,” she interrupts, pointing at him. “Because I do everything you do, but in heels.”

She makes a point to lift her leg to show off her shoes. “But, like, that’s why I joined that hike a few weeks ago and even agreed to be setup for a date in the first place. You’ve got to go out of your way to do new things once in a while.”

Iwaizumi frowns in thought. He wants to argue, but as he looks back at what he’s been doing the past weeks, then months, and he realizes there isn’t a particularly new or memorable moment that immediately comes to mind, he grudgingly begins to accept that Mizuki isn’t wrong.

Then he thinks about the pleasant evening he spent catching up with his friends at the bar a few days ago, Ushijima texting him last night asking for restaurant recommendations on where to find the best hayashi rice, and Bokuto asking if he wants to hang out on weekends because he gets bored when there’s no practice. And admittedly, none of that would have happened if he didn’t get into this whole situation because of Oikawa.

“Yeah,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. “I guess you’re right.”

– – –

If he had a choice, rather than splitting his hours between the clinic and the hospital, Iwaizumi would work at the clinic full-time. For one thing, he preferred his work area there. The main treatment area in the clinic was a spacious room with large windows that faced the park across the street and brought in a lot of sunlight. It had a wide variety of equipment; parallel bars, training stairs, benches, along with the colorful assortment of weights, stability balls, and mats. The room could almost look like a playground.

But more importantly, the clinic didn’t have the air of unease that lingered in the hospital; in the hushed murmur of patients and their families waiting for a diagnosis, the quiet hallways save for the soft elevator chimes. It felt lighter and much more relaxed, which probably lent to the better moods his patients usually had when they were getting treatment there; less nervous and downcast about their injuries and more focused on working to get better.

His 2PM appointment is with a boy named Yuta, a pitcher for his middle school baseball team who has been coming in for the past month and a half to help with his elbow pain. Iwaizumi doesn’t usually conduct the sessions himself; physiatrists diagnose the problem, prescribe medication, and work together with the physical therapist to design treatment plans, and it’s usually the physical therapist who executes them. But he has a soft spot for Yuta. He reminds him of himself in middle school, when his world revolved around his sport and the highs and lows that came with it.

He also knows that the reason Yuta got injured in the first place is that he stubbornly insisted to keep going to practice despite already feeling pain. Because this was his last middle school season, he wanted to be awarded the league’s best pitcher and it was his last chance to beat their rival school. Which easily reminds Iwaizumi of someone else.

“Okay, let’s move onto the next one,” he says, standing up from his crouch.

They move to one of the benches in the room. Yuta takes a seat at one end, his arm straight down against his side and his hand gripping the bench’s edge. Iwaizumi hooks one end of a resistance band to the floor while he hooks the other just above Yuta’s elbow. He rests one hand on Yuta’s back and the other on his chest, guiding him to lean forward, then back, pulling the resistance band taut then loose, to flex the muscles along the inside of his elbow.

“Let’s try to get twenty straight,” Iwaizumi instructs, kneeling beside Yuta to check on his form.

“Okay, sensei,” Yuta nods, his eyes focused and set forward. When he gets to fifteen, they count the last five together until finally he relaxes his arm to slide the resistance band off. Yuta collapses back on the bench, his hand gripping his elbow as he lets out a deep, relieved exhale.

“Good job,” Iwaizumi says, squeezing his shoulder as he gets to his feet. “Let’s take a break.”

He leaves Yuta on the bench as he walks over to one of the offices. He comes out with two bottles of water and passes one to him.

“Here, have some water.”

Yuta straightens and takes the bottle with an appreciative nod. “Thank you, sensei.”

Iwaizumi takes a seat on one of the stability balls, his shoes firm on the floor to keep himself balance. He takes another sip of water as he looks out the window, watching the trees and their swaying shadows from the warm afternoon sun. Remembering something, he turns to Yuta.

“Have you seen the trailer for the new Godzilla movie coming out?”

A delighted gleam appears in Yuta’s eyes. “Yes!” he says, then quickly adds, “sensei.”

He sits up straighter as he continues, “My friends and I agreed to watch it together when it comes out.”

Iwaizumi smiles, noticing the newly excited air around Yuta, so different from the tired, nervous one just a few seconds ago. He remembers his conversation with Mizuki, and how, since a kid, he never thought of himself as the kind of person to go out of his way to start conversations with others. But he realizes he’s changed a bit since then, possibly because of dealing with his patients. He’s come to learn that talking with them throughout the treatment helps them become more relaxed, and the air feels less tense. Maybe the conversation helps keep their minds from using the silence to dwell on their injuries.

Iwaizumi nods. “Yeah, I plan on watching it too.”

Yuta’s eyes widen. “You like Godzilla too, sensei?”

Iwaizumi smiles as he takes his phone out of his pocket. He lifts it up to show his lock screen wallpaper of a retro Godzilla poster. Yuta hurriedly takes his own phone out of his pocket and shows his wallpaper; a more modern Godzilla poster. He puts it back in his pocket as he continues excitedly, “Actually, my team mates and I were rewatching some of the movies last night after practice—”

His eyes bulge when he realizes he’s slipped.

Iwaizumi fixes him with a dark look and lowers his voice, “Yuta-kun, you know you’re not supposed to be in practice yet.”

Yuta winces. “I know, but,” he drops his eyes to his lap. He mumbles, “It’s my last year of middle school, sensei. It’s the last chance I have to make sure our team wins.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t know what he did in his past life to somehow come across another hardheaded kid who thinks he can win a team sport on his own. But maybe because he’s older and this is his second time around, as he looks at the hard set of Yuta’s shoulders, the fierce determination in his eyes, and the unwavering belief in his eyes that if he loses his middle school championships it’s the end of his world as he knows it, instead of feeling annoyance or frustration, he feels an odd fondness at how familiar it all is.

He leans over and clasps a hand over Yuta’s shoulder.

“I know it’s hard to believe now,” he says. “But there’s more than one of you in a team. Try not to put everything on your shoulders.”

Yuta looks up at him and Iwaizumi just hopes he comes to understand soon.

“Okay,” Iwaizumi sets his water bottle on the floor. “Break’s over. Let’s move to the next one.”

“Alright, sensei.”

They finish the rest of their exercises, and an hour later, it’s finally time for cool-down. Yuta takes a seat on the floor and stretches his arm out on the bench Iwaizumi is sitting on. He takes out his guasha massage tool from his pocket and runs it over the muscles of Yuta’s arm, from his wrist to his inner elbow.

“Relax,” he reminds, when he notices Yuta clenching his hand into a fist.

Yuta nods, biting his bottom lip. He opens his palm. “Okay, sensei.”

Iwaizumi continues massaging the muscles of his arm. Minutes pass when he hears Yuta ask, “Sensei, is that your next patient?”

He looks up just as Oikawa enters the room, his hand on the doorknob. He’s dressed in work out attire, a black dri-fit training jacket over his shirt and a small duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“Oh!” Oikawa says, stopping when he realizes Iwaizumi isn’t alone. “The nurse said I could just come in. Sorry, I’ll just wait outside.”

“It’s fine, we’re finishing up here,” Iwaizumi points toward the shelves and the row of chairs by one side of the room. “You can put your things in the shelves and take a seat over there.”

Oikawa glances to where he’s pointing and nods. “Sure, no problem.”

Yuta is quiet as he watches Oikawa walk to the shelves. He places his bag in one of them, then steps back to unzip his jacket and place it inside too. He takes a seat and bends down to start removing his knee brace.

“Sensei,” Yuta leans closer to Iwaizumi. He lowers his voice. “I think… I saw him on TV. Isn’t he famous?”

“Yes, he is,” Iwaizumi replies, using his hands now to run over Yuta’s tired arm muscles, his thumb pressing into the teenager’s inner elbow. He pockets his tool and gets to his feet before bending down to help him up.

“Wow,” Yuta sneaks another glance at Oikawa, who’s now just a few feet away, examining some of the therapy equipment in the room. He turns back to Iwaizumi and whispers, “And he’s getting therapy too?”

“Yes, Yuta-kun,” Iwaizumi says. They pass by Oikawa as they walk to the shelves to get Yuta’s things. “Because even famous people get hurt when they practice when they’re not supposed to.”

And if he says it loud enough for Oikawa to hear, he’ll claim it wasn’t intentional.

Oikawa turns around. The pout on his face makes it clear he overheard it. A guilty look appears on Yuta’s face as he puts on his shoes. “Okay, sensei, I’ll rest,” he laughs weakly.

Iwaizumi pulls out Yuta’s bag from the shelf. “I know you will, otherwise I’m writing a letter to you coach.”

“Okay, bye, sensei!” Yuta says hurriedly, taking his bag and running to the door. Oikawa holds the door open for him and they exchange quick nods as Yuta bolts out of the room.

Oikawa chuckles as he watches Yuta’s escape and closes the door after him. “So strict, Iwa-chan—” He looks away sheepishly. “Sorry, um, Iwaizumi, I mean.”

“… It’s fine,” Iwaizumi says, going back to the mats to pick up the weights and return them with the others. He clears his throat, not looking at Oikawa, “You can call me that. It’s… weird to hear you say the entire thing.”

He doesn’t say it’s also because it feels even more awkward whenever Oikawa has to stop and correct himself every time he does it.

Oikawa watches Iwaizumi set the last weight back on the rack. “Oh, okay,” A grin tugs the corner of his lips. “Yeah, your name is so long. That’s why I had to shorten it in the first place.”

Iwaizumi scoffs as he walks over to the shelf of yoga mats. He pulls one out and picks up a resistance band for Oikawa to use. “You can sit anywhere, we’ll start in a bit,” he says, heading to the office to get water for the both of them.

Oikawa nods, looking around the large room as he decides where to sit. Eventually he takes a seat on the floor by the window. He rests his hands behind himself and turns his face to the sun, smiling up at the warmth. He looks back to watch as Iwaizumi approaches him.

“I hope that kid’s injury isn’t so bad.”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi lays the yoga mat out on the floor. He hands Oikawa a bottle of water as he sits across him, on the other side of the mat. “Nothing too serious, but he’d get better sooner if he listened to me and stopped going overboard with the practice.”

He pauses and gives Oikawa a knowing look. “Remind you of anyone?”

“Actually, yes,” Oikawa opens the bottle and takes a sip of water, not meeting Iwaizumi’s eyes. But slowly, he gives him a playful grin. “Takeru. He looks to be the same age when I used to coach him and his friends.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, not surprised at Oikawa’s deflection. “But now that you mentioned him, how is Takeru?”

Oikawa’s eyes light up at the topic of his nephew. “He’s going to college this year! Can you believe it? He’s taking up engineering in Osaka.”

“Shit,” Iwaizumi sighs, resting back on his hands as he looks out the window. He recalls the kid who used to join their 7-11 runs to make sure Oikawa bought him the right ice cream flavor because he used to ask him and made sure to buy every flavor but the one he wanted. “Well, that makes me feel old.” He points to the yoga mat. “On your back, please.”

Oikawa nods as he moves to sit on the mat. He has a proud smile on his face as he continues, “Yeah, and he’s studying on a scholarship. Obviously, he got the smarts from me.”

But then a look of disgust quickly passes over his face. “Actually, he’s playing baseball now too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. When he entered high school, he told me he got sick of volleyball,” Oikawa rolls his eyes as he grumbles, “That brat. After all I did for him. I knew I should have charged my sister for those lessons.”

Iwaizumi scoffs. “Well, not every one shares your level of obsession—”

He nearly says ‘Shittykawa’ but his brain stops just before it comes out. Oikawa eyes flit to him, clearly picking it up. Iwaizumi clears his throat and continues, “But, to be fair, your obsession’s gotten you quite far.”

Oikawa’s eyes meet his as he gives him a small smile. He turns his head away as he leans back to rest on his elbows before lying on his back. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he murmurs, his eyes looking up at the ceiling.

Iwaizumi moves closer to him. “Okay, let’s start.”

After some basic stretches, they begin with bridges; Iwaizumi hands Oikawa the resistance band to pull up to his thighs before parting his knees hip width apart, his feet on the mat. Slowly he lifts his hips up from the floor, creating a straight line from his knees to his head, before lowering his hips back down to the mat. Usually Iwaizumi gets his patients to start with ten, but given Oikawa’s fitness level, they easily start with thirty.

They move onto other exercises, slowly building up in difficulty. This is usually when his patients ask for more frequent breaks or take longer to set up their form, but it doesn’t take long for Iwaizumi to notice that Oikawa moves through each exercise with the smooth familiarity of someone who seems to have done them before.

“When’s the last time you had knee therapy?” he asks, his hand on the back of Oikawa’s thigh, holding it down. Oikawa is now lying on his front, one end of the resistance band hooked to the floor and the other around his ankle while he lifts his foot up and down.

Oikawa’s arms are folded in front of him with his fists clenched tightly by his face. “Two years ago,” he pants, his teeth gritting with the effort. “And a year before that. But not as major.”

Iwaizumi nods. Athletes routinely go through physical therapy to deal with all sorts of pain, but it’s still worrisome to hear that his issues with his knees didn’t stop at high school.

“Okay, that’s thirty,” he says, tapping Oikawa’s thigh. “Let’s take a break.”

Oikawa lets out a thankful sigh as he pushes himself up to a sitting position. He picks up the bottle of water beside him and takes a long drink. When he’s done, he twists the cap back on and takes a deep, relieved breath, looking down at his lap. “You think it gets easier the second, then third time around,” he continues. He shakes his head. “But it doesn’t.”

Iwaizumi nods. “I can imagine.”

No athlete wants to be injured, but at such a high level of competitive play, it’s almost inevitable to have one. And no one gets used to it because every injury comes with the fear that this new one is going to having lasting effects on their game, or worst, end their career.

Iwaizumi takes a seat by the large windows, leaning against the glass. A silence settles over them as he takes a sip of his water. Oikawa pulls his knees to his chest and rests his chin atop them, not saying anything, and Iwaizumi grasps for a topic to bring up.

Iwaizumi sets his water bottle down. “So what’s it like?”

Oikawa’s eyes turn to him, his chin still on his knees. “What’s what like?”

He shrugs. “Galas. Having dinner with celebrities, people videoing you all the time. Is it fun? Are you used to it yet?”

Iwaizumi suddenly remembers the TV crews that used to visit their high school to take videos of Oikawa for the local news’ sport segment. He feels dumb asking; of course Oikawa’s probably used to the whole thing by now. “Oh, never mind,” he quickly takes back, shaking his head. “I’m sure high school did a good job preparing you for it.”

He notices that Oikawa still hasn’t said anything. He’s lowered his legs to the floor, one leg over the other as he leans back on his hands. Iwaizumi doesn’t know if he even heard his rambling or maybe he doesn’t want to answer the question; either way the silence is getting to him and making him feel more awkward for bring it up. Maybe he should just stick to being a listener kind of person.

“Ah, never mind,” he says, clearing his throat. “You don’t need to answer. I was just… uh, trying to make conversation—”

Oikawa looks up at him. “Ah, no, sorry, I’m just thinking how to answer.”

Iwaizumi pauses. “Oh, okay.”

Oikawa drops his eyes to his lap as he murmurs, “No one’s… well, no one’s really asked before.”

Iwaizumi’s sits back in surprise, at Oikawa’s words, at the suddenly intent look in Oikawa’s eyes. He’s also surprised no one’s ever asked him that question before, when it doesn’t seem like such a personal question to ask. At least he thinks so. It makes him wonder who Oikawa’s friends are now, who does he have to talk now to about things like this, or, just to talk to in general.

_Because I wasn’t there_ , his brain fills in for him.

Oikawa exhales, his head tilted to the side. “Yeah… I guess I can say I got used to, you know, people wanting to be around me back in high school. It’s just ramped up to about 100 now.”

Iwaizumi notices the tense set in Oikawa’s shoulders as he sits up straight. “But what took me a while to realize was… it’s not really _me_ , they want to be around, you know?” He lets out a light laugh. “I mean, no, yeah, it’s me. But… me the Olympian, the winner, the… one they see on TV.”

He swallows, and his eyes quickly glance Iwaizumi’s way before dropping back to his lap. “But not… _me_ me.”

Iwaizumi is quiet as he observes Oikawa. He hears the leaves rustle outside as the breeze picks up. The soft hum of the airconditioner fills the space between them. And the silence gives Oikawa the time to think about his words more. He lifts his hands up in front of him, holding them away from each other. “There’s this separation,” he continues, like he’s talking to himself almost. “Between me and… the me that everyone thinks is me, or, the me that everyone wants me to be. And that’s what I had to realize. And… what took me a while to adjust to.”

Oikawa glances his way before he averts his eyes again. He laughs, small and self-conscious, one that Iwaizumi recognizes from his worst days. “I don’t even know if that made any sense,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

Iwaizumi breathes out a sigh as he takes in Oikawa’s responses. He watches him fiddle nervously with the hem of his shirt.

“So you mean to tell me,” he begins slowly. “People don’t know that until the age of eight, you firmly believed you came from another planet?”

Oikawa’s eyes widen, and before he can keep it down, a laugh quickly escapes his lips. Clearly, he hadn’t expected Iwaizumi to bring the memory up. Iwaizumi feels the grin on his face as he watches the heavy look fade from Oikawa’s eyes as he leans back, holding his chest from how hard he’s laughing. As he regains his composure, he shakes his head as he lifts his hand to wipe the corner of his eyes.

“No,” he says softly, chuckling. He glances at Iwaizumi and gives him a small smile. “Just you.”

Their eyes meet and Iwaizumi feels an unexpected warmth in his chest. Because this feels familiar, teasing Oikawa, laughing over old childhood stories. And it’s also because after all these years, and the numerous online articles and fan accounts dedicated to sharing everything about Oikawa, it turns out there are still some things that only he knows about him.

Iwaizumi snorts. “Yeah, I don’t think any brand would have agreed to have you as an endorser if they knew.”

The smile quickly disappears from Oikawa’s face as he scowls. And the dismayed “Iwa-chan!” he says sounds so familiar too, Iwaizumi can’t hold back his laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, break time’s over. Let’s move onto the next.”

– – –

It was only on the day itself that Iwaizumi found out the gala was composed of two parts. The first had been earlier in the later afternoon, with each team taking part in a prayer and photographs at a local shrine. The second was the dinner and cocktails along with a short program, in a hotel ballroom large enough to hold each participating team’s players, coaches, medical staff, and members of the press.

Iwaizumi hasn’t actually seen much of his friends, and since he doesn’t really know anyone else beyond them, he’s spent most of the event by himself. But he doesn’t really mind. It’s interesting to observe them in this environment; he’s sure these fancy dinners are all part of being a national athlete. He’s standing by himself at a cocktail table, and from where he is, he can Ushijima is talking with fellow dour-looking members from the taekwondo team, and Bokuto is having an animated conversation with some of his other teammates by their table. The busiest out of all of them is Oikawa, who looks to be only halfway through his first glass of champagne because as soon as he’s finished talking to one person, another one comes, in the hopes of experiencing two minutes of his attention, with a new conversation or asking for a photo.

Iwaizumi is taking a sip of his champagne when Nakata joins him, placing his empty wine glass on a waiter’s tray and simultaneously picking up a new one as he passes by.

“How are you doing, sensei?” he drawls, leaning against the table. He raises his glass. “The committee did not scrimp on the wine today!”

Iwaizumi takes note of his flushed cheeks and his askew tie.

“Might want to slow down there,” he replies, taking another sip of his champagne. “And fine.”

Nakata waves him off as he picks up a canapé from Iwaizumi’s plate. “So I have to ask,” he begins, popping it into his mouth. “What’s the history between you and Oikawa?”

“What history?” Iwaizumi sets his glass down as his eyes return to the crowd. He sees Kageyama and Hinata arguing over a waiter’s last plate of smoked salmon canapés. He shrugs. “We’re friends from before.”

“Okay,” Nakata nods, but he’s still leaning forward. Like he’s waiting for Iwaizumi to continue. Seconds pass before he blinks and stands up straight. “Oh, okay. That’s it?”

Iwaizumi gives him a questioning look. “What do you mean?”

Nakata’s eyebrows shoot up to his receding hairline. “Oh, okay,” he repeats, raising his wine glass to his lips. “I just assumed, you know, because you grew up together, know all his friends…”

He trails off and takes a sip, a thoughtful look on his face. “Okay then. That’s surprising.”

“How long have you been working with Oikawa?” Iwaizumi asks, finding a new topic.

Nakata downs the last of his wine and motions a nearby waiter for another one. “Hmm,” he muses, handing his glass over as he gets a new one. “Around six years? After he graduated university.”

“Wow, that’s quite a while.”

He snorts as he brings his glass to his lips. “Yeah, and this is the first time I’ve seen him act like this.”

“Like what?”

Nakata barks out a laugh. “Well, for one thing, you have no idea how hard it was to even get him to _consider_ therapy before,” he replies. “He used to say it’d take time away from practice, taking a break would lose his edge...”

He sets his wine glass down on the table. “And look at him now,” he remarks, motioning toward Oikawa, who is standing at the edge of the crowd, talking to someone new. “Going to therapy on his own, not putting it off, he’s on-time. And I see him during practice wanting to join, but actually deciding not to.”

He gives Iwaizumi a sideways glance. “He listens to you.”

Iwaizumi is quiet as Nakata snorts, “Where’ve you been these all this time? You could have made my job a lot easier,” he muses. He exhales before turning to Iwaizumi, clinking his glass against his. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. Some of Oikawa’s sponsors are here and I’ve got to talk to them and make them feel special.”

“Okay,” Iwaizumi replies, watching Nakata stumble away. _Someone needs to watch over that guy,_ he thinks.

Finding himself alone again and with no waiter nearby, Iwaizumi walks over to the bar area to get himself some water. As he gets closer, he recognizes the young woman who gave him directions back in the arena. She’s leaning against the counter as she waits for her order, scrolling through her phone.

“Hi,” he greets, standing beside her. “Thanks again for helping me out last time.”

She turns her head. “Oh, hi,” she says, as soon as she’s recognized him. She leans back against the counter and grins as she takes in his appearance. “You dress up nicely.”

Iwaizumi’s cheeks warm. She’s wearing a black dress that accentuates her tall, svelte figure. She’s also in high heels so if she was standing straight, he’s sure she’d be taller than him.

“You too,” he returns politely. He nods his head. “Iwaizumi, by the way.”

“Tomu,” she says, picking up her cocktail glass after the bartender sets it down in front of her. He also sets his glass of water in front of him. “And I know, I asked the medical team after you.”

“Oh, I see,” Iwaizumi remarks, taking a sip of his water.

“And I also found out your services don’t extend to anyone beyond Oikawa-senpai,” Tomu continues. She props her elbow on the counter and rests her chin on her palm as she sighs. “That’s a shame. Lucky him.”

“Well, it’s only because he got himself injured, so, not _so_ lucky.”

“Oh, of course,” she says, nodding. She runs a finger over the lip of her glass. “Yeah, I’ve seen him practice really late before.”

“Because you’re practicing late too?”

“No, no,” she says, waving a hand. “I’m one of the juniors in the team so, I get stuck with packing things up most of the time,” she explains, chuckling. “And sometimes when I clean up, I see him just about to start.”

Iwaizumi nods. That sounds familiar. He takes another sip of water as a thought occurs.

“Oh, but,” Iwaizumi clarifies, “If you’re feeling any pain, of course you can ask me. For help, medical advice… and stuff. ”

She smiles. “Yeah, I guess you owe me a favor.”

“Tomu!” someone calls, and they both look back to see another woman who’s probably her teammate calling her over. She turns back to Iwaizumi and winks, holding her glass up. “Anyway, see you around.”

Iwaizumi holds his glass up as she steps away from the counter. “See you.”

He watches her as she walks toward her team mate. Alone again, Iwaizumi leans against the counter to face the crowd, thinking how easy it’d be to slip away and leave unannounced given the highlight of these events are the actual athletes. He sees Bokuto and Ushijima by one of the tables, Kageyama rifling through the assortment of cocktail food—and he catches Oikawa looking his way. He’s in middle of a conversation with an older woman, and his eyes quickly return to her when their eyes meet.

_“The shrimp is so good!”_

He turns to see Hinata. His hands are full, holding a plate full of shrimp and three different kinds of dipping sauce. He drags Iwaizumi over to a cocktail table and pushes the plate toward him. “Try some!”

“This is good too,” a voice adds.

Kageyama joins them, holding his drink, along with with plates of yakitori and grilled vegetables.

“It’s a shame they don’t serve rice,” Hinata says, popping a shrimp into his mouth.

“It’s okay,” Iwaizumi’s eyes taking in all the food piled on their table. There’s enough for each of them to have a full meal. Kageyama and Hinata start enthusiastically digging into them while arguing whether the yakitori or shrimp tastes better. “That’s probably why they’re still serving dinner after this.”

– – –

The gala’s program is a short one; after a speech by the head of the Olympic committee wishing all the athletes good luck and telling them they make their country proud, the captain of each team is called to the stage to present a donation to a local children’s league on behalf of their respective sport. Volleyball is called last, and because he’s captain, Oikawa goes up on stage to present the team’s donation. It’s obvious to everyone in the room that that his cheers are louder and the cameras flash for much longer than the other captains’. He must have some fans even among the other athletes in the room.

It’s then followed by some performances by local artists, and by the time the event is wrapping up for the closing drinks and dancing, Iwaizumi decides it’s probably a good time for him to leave because he still has work the next day. He finishes his drink and slips out of the ballroom, but before heading to the lobby, he asks one of the waiters for directions to the bathroom. He’s told to go down a hallway, and his bad luck with directions strikes again because after a couple of minutes of not finding it, he concludes he must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.

“Shit,” he mutters, as he turns around to head back to the ballroom.

He’s checking his phone and walking down the hallway when he suddenly hears a loud thud.

He stops. He scans the area, looking for something that must have fallen or hit something. He notices a door that’s slightly open; it’s to one of the smaller events rooms.

He steps toward it, slowly pulling the door open, when he hears a pained groan.

It’s swiftly followed by a frantic voice, hissing, “I told you to eat before getting here!”

That’s Oikawa’s voice. He steps inside to see the empty conference room and it is Oikawa, standing over a passed out Nakata. He’s flat on his back with a large wine stain all over the front of his tuxedo.

“Is he okay?”

Oikawa spins around. “Oh, Iwa-chan,” His shoulders relax. He brings a hand to his chest. “It’s just you.”

Nakata lifts his head up from the floor. “Oh! It’s our favorite doctor!” he exclaims, a drunken grin on his face.

Oikawa throws Nakata a dark look and tells him to keep his voice down while Iwaizumi closes the door behind him. He steps closer to stand beside Oikawa and join him in looking down at the sight before them. “I can’t say I’m surprised,” he remarks, setting his hands on his hips.

Nakata drops his head back and giggles. Oikawa, who clearly doesn’t share in Nakata’s drunken joy, lets out a panicked whine. “He always drinks too much during these events. It’s the free alcohol,” he grumbles. “I think he went overboard this time.”

Iwaizumi looks down at the man passed out on the floor with a wine stain all over his front. “Clearly.”

Oikawa crouches down beside Nakata. “I need to get him to my apartment,” he says, reaching for Nakata’s arm to sling it over his back. “I’m staying at the residences here.”

“Stop,” Iwaizumi interrupts. “I’ll do it.”

Oikawa pauses, looking up him. “No, I can—”

“You can’t put too much weight on your knee yet,” he insists. He moves to stand behind Nakata as he takes off his tuxedo jacket. “I’ll do it. Just carry my jacket.”

“Iwa-chan, you don’t have to—”

He turns to Oikawa, and in a voice he often uses on his most stubborn patients, repeats, “I’ll do it.”

Oikawa shuts his mouth. He nods as he takes his jacket.

Slowly, Iwaizumi bends down to hook his hands under Nakata’s arms. He stands up straight, testing to see how much of him he can pull up, and he’s at least able to raise Nakata’s upper body. He’s not going to be able to carry him fully so his legs will drag across the floor as he moves him. But he thinks the carpeted floor and Nakata’s drunken state won’t make him feel it too much.

He settles Nakata back on the floor as he turns to Oikawa. “Let’s go. I think I saw an elevator nearby.”

Oikawa watches him quietly before nodding. He turns around and pulls the door open, peeking his head through it first to make sure no one is passing by.

“Okay, it’s clear,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Iwaizumi lifts Nakata up and turns around to start pulling him out of the room. Not long after he starts, his lips are pressed to a thin line, heavily breathing through his nose as he strains to keep Nakata’s upper body raised, his dead weight making him heavier. They turn to go down an empty hallway where Iwaizumi had seen an elevator. Oikawa keeps glancing at him, offering to help every five seconds, and Iwaizumi gritting out a firm “No” every time.

When they finally get to the elevator, Iwaizumi props Nakata up against the wall while they wait for it to come down. He leans on the wall across him so he can catch his breath. Oikawa walks to the other end of the hallway to divert anyone that might pass their way.

Nakata’s limp form starts sliding down the wall, and the movement jostles him awake. He looks around the hallway, assessing where he is, before he blinks up at him.

“Oh, sensei,” he remarks. “You’re still here.”

Iwaizumi gives him a flat look. “I told you to slow down,” he says, although, in his state, he doubts he can even remember. Nakata’s eyes slowly turn cross-eyed as he looks up at him, and Iwaizumi laughs before he can hold it down.

Nakata’s eyes realign at the sound. He grins up at Iwaizumi. “You know, if you think this is funny, you should hear about the last time Oikawa got this drunk.”

Iwaizumi turns to glance at Oikawa, who’s still standing away from them.

“It’s fine, you don’t need to tell me—”

Nakata lets out a loud laugh. “Oh, but his story is hilarious,” he begins. “So his team just won the league championships, right? And we’re all celebrating and drinking and halfway through the night I realize—Oikawa’s gone! Disappears! Nowhere to be found!”

He drops his head back on the wall as he recalls the event, giggling to himself, “So here I am, losing my shit, thinking, that’s it, I’m fired, I’ve just lost my client, and I spend the entire night asking people if they’ve seen him, until I get a text the next morning that Oikawa’s passed out somewhere.”

He squints up at Iwaizumi as if to make sure he’s still paying attention. “And so I find him in some hotel room, _butt naked_ , sandwiched between two guys _of the team he just beat!_ ”

Nakata howls in laughter, slapping his knee but missing completely so he nearly topples forward. “If that’s not sportsmanship, I don’t know what is—”

_“Nakata!”_

Like two guilty students caught whispering in class, they both turn their heads to see Oikawa, who’s red all the way up to his ears, clearly having overheard the story. His eyes flit from Nakata to Iwaizumi, and no one says a word until the elevator announces its arrival with its soft ding. The doors slide open and the sound of elevator music fills the deathly silent hallway.

Iwaizumi clears his throat and stands up straight. “Um, let’s go?”

Oikawa’s doesn’t look him in the eye and doesn’t say anything as he enters the elevator. He taps his keycard against the sensor then presses the button for his floor. Iwaizumi picks up Nakata once more, heaving him inside and resting him against one of the corners while the elevator climbs up to Oikawa’s floor. It must be high up because the ride feels impossibly long. But that’s probably because it’s unbearably quiet, save for the soft music and Nakata’s snoring. Iwaizumi is leaning against the railing and facing the door, and he sneaks a glance at Oikawa. His gaze is fixed on the floor, and while he can only see his ears from where he’s standing, they’re still red, so he figures the rest of his face must still be too.

When the doors finally open to Oikawa’s floor, his voice is quiet as he says, “Okay, follow me.”

It’s a short walk down the sleek hallway before they get to Oikawa’s apartment. He presses his keycard to unlock it and goes in first to keep the door open for Iwaizumi as he heaves Nakata inside. He settles him on the ground to take off his shoes, followed by his own, then drags him onto a nearby sofa. He manages to get his upper body onto it first, before bending down to pick up his legs.

“Thank fuck,” Iwaizumi breathes, letting out a relieved sigh. He straightens himself to stretch his back. Now that he’s taken care of Nakata, it’s only then that he realizes how large Oikawa’s apartment is. It must be a penthouse unit because aside from the wide floorspace, the ceiling is high-up; it must be equivalent to two floors.

Oikawa’s voice is quiet as he says, “Thanks for helping me out.”

Iwaizumi turns to see him still standing by the door, eyes to the side, his hands clenched tightly around his jacket. It doesn’t take a genius to know he’s probably still feeling embarrassed about Nakata’s story.

He clears his throat. “No problem. I’ll just head off then—”

“—Do you want tea?”

Iwaizumi pauses, not expecting the offer.

Oikawa drops his eyes. “Oh, yeah, of-of course,” he stumbles, “I’m sure you’ll want to get going.”

Yes, if Iwaizumi leaves now, he’d be able to catch the last train and avoid having to spend on exorbitant taxi fees to get home.

But he also knows that his next decision is an important one; it goes beyond just having tea. But the thing is he’s not sure what to do. Is Oikawa just being polite and actually wants him to leave to give himself space? But if the offer is genuine, and he actually wants him to stay, if he does leave, would Oikawa feel it has to do with what Nakata just mentioned? He wouldn’t want him to think that.

Judging by the fact Oikawa’s still unable to look him in the eye, he’s still probably feeling embarrassed or self-conscious. But because it’s been so long, he’s not sure what Oikawa would want him to do. If he’s anything like how he was before, Iwaizumi knows from experience that leaving him like this would be a bad idea, and while Oikawa would never say it out loud, yes, he’d want him to stay.

But it’s been nearly ten years. Would he still want that?

He also tells himself that he’s grossly overthinking this and, well, Oikawa offered, so he must have been prepared for him to say yes.

“Sure, yeah, tea sounds great.”

Oikawa looks up, his eyes wide. It seems he hadn’t been expecting him to say yes. “Oh, okay, I’ll just—go prepare it then.”

He turns and walks toward the kitchen area, then stops. He carefully folds Iwaizumi’s jacket over the back of the sofa, then makes his way to the kitchen, leaving Iwaizumi in the living room with Nakata and his not-so-soft snoring. Now that he’s alone, he takes the time to admire Oikawa’s massive apartment. It looks like one of those pre-furnished units where the main design traits are modern and expensive. It’s a corner unit too, because two walls are composed entirely of floor to ceiling windows, and as he walks closer to them, he sees that it’s overlooking the Yokohama Cosmo Clock and a view of the bay, the boats twinkling by the harbor. He lets out a low, impressed whistle. This place must be expensive.

The one thing that detracts from the sleek, perfectly furnished look of the apartment are the cardboard boxes lying by a door leading to a balcony, and when Iwaizumi walks closer to them, he notices the DHC label, along with other familiar logos. Probably the products that Oikawa endorses, he concludes. He checks to see if he can recognize some of the logos when he hears the kettle go off.

And it continues to go on until it’s soon accompanied by Oikawa’s swearing. Concerned, Iwaizumi steps away from the boxes and slowly walks toward the kitchen area. He finds Oikawa flitting from one cupboard to another, opening and closing them in search for something.

“Shit,” Oikawa mutters under his breath.

“Do you need help?”

Oikawa turns around, leaning against the counter. “Oh, sorry,” he breathes. He bites his bottom lip nervously while one hand motions toward the kitchen. “I’m still… figuring out where everything is here. I don’t actually know where the tea is yet.”

Iwaizumi is standing by the island counter. He looks down at one of its inset shelves and sees the box of tea bags. He bends down to pick it up.

“Here,” he replies, holding it out to him.

Oikawa looks down at it, his cheeks growing red.

“Oh, thanks,” he says, taking the tea. He pulls out two tea bags and places one in each mug he’s managed to find. He takes the kettle off its heater and pours water into them.

While they wait for the tea, Iwaizumi looks around the kitchen. There’s a bowl of fruit by the sink and fresh flowers in a clear vase. He takes note of the top-of-the-line appliances, clean and shiny in the way things new and unused look.

“Your place is really nice,” he starts. “I’m pretty sure your kitchen alone is bigger than my room.”

“Oh,” Oikawa looks around like he’s just noticing the apartment now that Iwaizumi’s mentioned it. He lifts a hand and scratches behind his ear. “I didn’t, I mean, Nakata chose it—it’s got three rooms, and I’m the only one staying here—it’s too big, really.”

Iwaizumi nods. “Yeah, well, it’s really nice,” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the view by the living room. “And the view is great.”

Oikawa smiles politely. “Yeah, it is.”

He turns back to the tea and takes the tea bags out, placing them in the sink. He holds one mug in each hand as he walks to the island counter and slides one across the top toward Iwaizumi.

“Careful, it’s hot.”

“Thanks,” Iwaizumi says, picking it up carefully. He pulls out one of the stools by the counter and takes a seat. He blows on the tea before taking a sip; it smells of chamomile and lavender. Oikawa stands across him, and they sip their tea in silence, save for Nakata’s soft snoring from the living room.

Iwaizumi doesn’t know how much time has passed, but he’s nearly halfway through his tea when Oikawa speaks, so softly he barely can hear him, and he’s standing right across him, “I didn’t want you to find out that way.”

Iwaizumi looks up, but Oikawa isn’t looking at him. His eyes are fixed on his tea, his hands tightly gripping the mug’s sides.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” he dismisses, waving a hand. He pauses when he notices Oikawa’s contrite expression is still on his face. “Frankly, I’m not that surprised you’d find yourself in a threesome.”

This gets Oikawa’s cheeks to flush red all over again. “Iwa-chan, how crude!”

“Says the one who had a threesome.”

Oikawa’s face crumples as he whines, “Iwa-chan…”

“I’m kidding,” Iwaizumi assures, really hoping Oikawa knows he’s not bothered by it. He looks down at his tea. But there is a thought niggling at the back of his head.

He clears his throat. “I didn’t know you liked men though.”

Oikawa’s eyes have yet to meet his, but Iwaizumi notices his clenched fists, his thumb and index finger on his right hand rubbing together. It’s something he used to do when he was anxious or worrying over something. So that’s still the same.

“Well, I like both, but,” he pauses. “I realized that I like men more.”

Iwaizumi nods.

“When did you…” he starts, but he’s not sure how to phrase it properly, and not even sure if he should be asking. But well, he’s already started. “Since when? Or… when did you have an idea? If it’s rude of me to ask, you don’t have to answer.”

He’s surprised when that question is what makes Oikawa look up to meet his eyes, before quickly dropping them again. His cheeks are red as he swallows, like he doesn’t trust himself to answer. “I… it was—started in middle school,” Iwaizumi notices Oikawa’s fingers tighten around his mug. “But I knew for sure in high school.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes widen. “You mean, back when we were still—” he nearly says ‘best friends’ but catches himself and finishes with something less awkward, “—in school together?”

Back when they were supposed to be best friends and know every major thing about each other? He remembers the pride he felt back in the clinic, about him being the only other person in the word to still know about Oikawa’s self-proclaimed alien origin story. But now he feels a stab of guilt that he never knew about this. And that maybe there must have been something he did or said that Oikawa couldn’t even bring himself to tell him.

Oikawa nods. His own personal guilt fades as Iwaizumi imagines how hard it must have been to keep it to himself. To not be able to tell his closest friend. Or, well, maybe he told other people, just not him.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel that you couldn’t tell me,” Iwaizumi starts, shaking his head. “If I did, I never meant—”

Oikawa’s lifts his head, his eyes wide. “No, Iwa-chan, you never—it’s not that.”

Despite knowing this conversation isn’t about him, relief fills Iwaizumi at Oikawa’s words.

“Oh, okay,” he nods. “But if I did, in any way, I’m sorry.”

A pained expression passes on Oikawa’s face. “It wasn’t—I didn’t tell anyone then. I was still figuring it out.”

Iwaizumi nods. He takes another sip of his tea. “I’m sorry you had to go through it on your own,” he says. “I can’t imagine it was easy.”

Oikawa laughs, nervous and shuddering. “No, it wasn’t.”

Iwaizumi runs his thumb along the rim of his mug. He glances at Oikawa. “I should have been there for you,” he says. “But I’m glad you could tell me now.”

Oikawa looks up and their eyes meet. From the look in his eyes, he can’t help but feel Oikawa has more to say, but the moment passes. They share a smile, and the air start to feel less tense, but the moment is interrupted by an errantly loud snore from the living room. Oikawa scowls, lifting his chin to glower at Nakata.

“I forgot he was there.”

Iwaizumi chuckles and finishes the last of his tea. He sets the mug in the sink. “Alright, I think that’s my cue,” he says. “I need to go if I want to catch the last train home.”

The last train of the day left fifteen minutes ago, so he’s going to have to spend for a taxi home. But it’s not so bad because Oikawa no longer as looks as he did earlier. He gets up from his stool and Oikawa follows him to the door.

“Thanks for the tea,” he says, picking up his jacket from the sofa. He slips it back on before putting on his shoes.

Oikawa nods, opening the door for him. He's leaving when he hears him say, “Iwa-chan.”

He pauses. Oikawa’s grip is tight around the doorknob. “It’s… really nice to be able to talk to you again,” he says softly. He looks up and their eyes meet. “I’m glad we ran into each other.”

Iwaizumi smiles. And he doesn’t even have to think about it as he says, “Yeah, me too.”

– – –


	6. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> — *slams down ALTERNATE POV card* Our first Oikawa POV chapter! The story is going to alternate between the two of them. 
> 
> — To avoid any confusion, this chapter starts off with Oikawa remembering something that happened in the past, then moves to present time. This chapter really stretched my grasp of the English language, sorry in advance for any mistakes.

– – –

  
  


They were already in their final year of high school when Iwaizumi received his first confession letter.

And the event felt more significant to Oikawa, and he wasn’t even the one getting confessed to. Because he remembers it so clearly: it was their first day after exams, and his sister had just come back from Tokyo and brought him back some cake to share with his friends. Makki and Mattsun were folded over their chairs, asking where’s the cake, why aren’t they eating it yet, because Oikawa refused to start when he realized _someone_ was missing.

Iwaizumi, who had disappeared halfway through their lunch break. The cake was matcha-flavored, and his best friend being the secret old man that he was, coupled with having poor taste, Oikawa knew he’d like it because it wasn’t too sweet.

Said best friend only reappeared at the end of lunch, just as their teacher arrived to tell them to get back to their seats. Mattsun and Makki slinked out of the classroom to return to their own, grumbling about how they were looking forward to the cake, but their words floated past Oikawa because there was something suspicious about Iwaizumi. He hadn’t said anything about where he went off to, and he kept his head low as he returned to his seat. Oikawa was quick to notice the redness in his cheeks—and in his hand, a pink envelope with his name written in a pretty scrawl, that he hurriedly stuffed into his backpack. 

_Oh._

Seeing the letter brought Oikawa back to the first time he received one. It was all the way back in middle school, and Iwaizumi, Mattsun, Makki had all taken turns in teasing him, asking who the girl was, telling him not to let it get to his head (the last had solely been Iwaizumi). And he thought, he should be doing the same for him, right? Because that’s what friends did? It wouldn’t even be that hard to think of a way to teasingly congratulate him that wow, finally, a girl that wasn’t terrified of him and actually thought he was cute. 

But instead, Oikawa turned his head away. He flipped his notebook open and faced the board. He ignored it, like he ignored how he felt his heart beating faster in his chest and how it made his mouth twitch. And he ignored it whenever he thought about the letter during the days after. Never mind that it was Iwaizumi’s first one, and he already had four girlfriends and a basket full of confession letters of his own by that time; he spent more time thinking about Iwaizumi’s one letter than any of the ones he had received. 

But he never brought it up, and he was glad when Iwaizumi never did either. He assumed he had probably turned her down.

The second one Iwaizumi received was months later, and compared to the first, it wasn’t as easy to ignore because he was there when it happened. They were leaving practice, hurrying to get to Iwaizumi’s house to play a new game his mom had bought for him, when they noticed one of their classmates waiting by the gym doors.

“Oh, Aki-chan,” Oikawa greeted, flashing her a smile as they neared her. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

Actually, all it took was one quick glance to know why she was there. The nervous bite on her bottom lip, the blush high on her cheeks, her hands holding something tightly behind her back; it was the same look a lot of girls had just before they confessed their feelings to him or gave him a letter. 

But what he didn’t expect was: “Actually, I was hoping to talk to Iwaizumi.”

And the same cold tightness that he thought had faded away swiftly returned, and he promptly forgot what smooth reply he usually had prepared. He was thankful that Mattsun and Makki were there to fill his abrupt pause with their sniggers and “Oooh, Iwaizumi, you lucky dog,”, elbowing him toward Aki-chan, to which he hastily bit out, “Jeez, cut it out!”. Oikawa still hadn’t said anything as he watched him push past them to stand beside her.

He turned this head back. “I’ll just meet you at my house, you guys go ahead,” he said, before following Aki-chan to somewhere more private. Maybe behind the gym or the pine trees near the field. That’s where Oikawa got most of his letters.

Oikawa remembers his hands tight against his sides as he watched them walk away. Iwaizumi was smiling at something Aki-chan had said, probably to make her feel less nervous, because he was a good person like that. He remembers Mattsun sighing, “Our boy’s growing up. Next step is a girlfriend.” which prompted Makki to look over at him and not-so-subtly elbow Mattsun on the side. And he remembers feeling self-conscious when he noticed it, so he quickly relaxed his hands and fixed a smile on his face as he turned to the two of them, “You heard Iwa-chan! Let’s get a head start on his game so we can beat him when he arrives.”, and ignoring the look they shared between them. 

But when Iwaizumi finally arrived at his room nearly an hour later, his pretense of unaffected nonchalance quickly disappeared when he saw the giddy smile his best friend was trying hard to keep down as he announced he was watching a movie on Friday, and by the way, he’d like them to pay back the money they owed him so he’d be able to pay for popcorn. 

And even when they packed up for the day, the heavy feeling in his chest didn’t leave. It was still there when he went home for dinner. It was still there later that night in his bed, as he stared up at the glow-in-the dark stars on his ceiling, one half of a set he shared with Iwaizumi. And maybe it was the stars, the quiet dark, or the combination of both, but he found himself opening up to the truth that the feeling wasn’t going to go away unless he finally faced the things that had been growing for a long time now, but he had refused to look too closely. 

Things like how Iwaizumi had been appearing in his dreams more and more. And while most of the time they were doing everyday things like practices, watching movies in their room, some took a different turn. In those, his body grew hot as he dreamed of a hand sliding up his thigh, someone's breath against his lips. In those, their touches grew longer, their clothes fewer. And more and more Oikawa found himself waking up with a wetness in his shorts that had him sneaking through his house in the early hours of the morning to dispose of them in the laundry before his mom saw. 

At first, he decided it was probably some hormonal teenage boy thing, where any pair of hands or any warm body will do. After all, he had the same dreams about the girlfriend he had at the time too; he’ll make out with anyone if it gets him excited or if the friction’s right. It just so happened that Iwaizumi was the warm body he spent most of his time with, even longer than any of his girlfriends, so his teenage hormones had chosen him as another outlet. 

But it didn’t explain why things like eating day-old cake didn’t feel right if Iwaizumi wasn’t there to share it with. Why him getting a confession letter weighed on him more than any of the ones he received. And it didn’t explain the leap in his chest when Iwaizumi barged into his room after his movie, carrying a packet of the same brand of convenience store milk bread he’s eaten since he was five. And it didn’t explain how the heaviness that plagued him the entire week lifted almost instantly when Iwaizumi grumbled that Aki-chan talked throughout the entire movie so he missed out on a lot of important dialogue, and how it had him immediately quip, “Iwa-chan, if you had invited me, I wouldn’t have said a word” to which Iwaizumi replied with, “Yeah, right.”

From his bed, he watched as Iwaizumi dumped his console and its cables in front of his TV to start setting it up. He tore open his packet of milk bread, and as he bit into it, his nerves soothed by its familiar taste, he realized that none of his other friends knew about how much he loved milk bread. How, on a dare from Iwaizumi, he had lasted a week where it was all he had eaten and he still hadn’t gotten sick of it. And as he watched him kneeling in front of the mess of cables, figuring out which plug goes to which port, his eyebrows narrowed and a scowl on his face, maybe someone would have thought it was an inconvenience and he was stressing over it. But Oikawa knew that he actually enjoyed things like that; settings things up, building things, using his hands to solve problems. 

Because in the way Oikawa knew that Iwaizumi was the only person who knew himself more than he did, he liked to think it was the same for his best friend. That Iwaizumi was a well-kept secret that only he knew too. That beneath his blunt and gruff exterior, he was one of the most patient and understanding people anyone could know; he could face someone’s failings and still choose to be their friend. And if he could look past the flaws of an insecure, overly competitive, selfish boy and still choose him as a best friend—what more someone who didn’t come with all his issues?

He let out a shaky breath. He had worked for so many things in his life, yet he still hadn’t gotten them—he never got to defeat Ushijima, his skills have been surpassed by Kageyama, and he would never get his chance to go to nationals. Was it so much to ask to have one thing, _one person_ , to himself? 

Oikawa’s eyes widened as he gulped—and nearly choked on a chunk of milk bread. He coughed, thumping his beating chest with his fist. From his pile of cables, Iwaizumi snapped at him to slow down and chew his food. 

In his bed later that night, long after Iwaizumi had gone home, Oikawa began to fully accept that no, it wasn’t just a hormonal teenage boy thing. That no, not any warm body or pair of hands would do; there was a specific person he wanted around him all the time, a specific pair of hands he wanted on himself, on his face, or even just around his own. 

His face grew warm, not believing he was even letting himself think such thoughts. He pulled his blankets over himself, afraid that the rest of the house could hear how loud his heart was beating in his chest. In the dark, he could hear the sound of rain outside his window. And he felt himself growing closer to accepting something his heart had known for a long time now, but his brain didn’t. Or maybe it was the other way around.

He was in love with his best friend.

And he didn’t know what to do about it. 

– – –

  
  


Oikawa is standing outside the therapy clinic when it starts to rain. He pockets his phone as he looks up at the darkening sky. His car soon comes up the driveway and he quickly gets inside to find Nakata waiting for him in the backseat. 

“We’ve got to align on your schedule,” he greets, and Oikawa nods as he settles in. Nakata scrolls through his tablet as he begins, “You’re scheduled for your shoot for Pocari this Friday.”

Oikawa’s brow furrows. “We’ve already started with training. I thought we weren’t doing any endorsement activities by the time training camp starts?”

Nakata sighs as he runs a hand through his thinning hair. “I know, I don’t like it either, but you’ve got one shoot day in your contract. And they need to do it now to make it to their TV spot during the Olympics,” he explains, frowning. “It was supposed to be before training started, but the storyboard has you doing some serves. I had to move it down until I got Iwaizumi-senpai’s okay for you to start doing jumps again.”

Oikawa frowns. He doesn’t like the thought of doing a commercial shoot in the middle of Olympics training. What more he’s already been sidelined for the past few weeks because he got himself injured. As captain, it’s not going to look good to his coach or his team mates, and he worries it’s going to get people to question his priorities. But he’s legally bound to do it, and it’s going to cause even more trouble if it gets out he didn’t follow a contract he signed and is getting paid for.

He drops his head back on the seat and groans. He wouldn’t be in this position if he hadn’t gotten himself injured. Another situation he could have easily avoided if he wasn’t so… himself. 

He turns to Nakata. “Can we have it on the weekend?” he suggests. “I don’t care if it takes up my days off, but it can’t take up training days.”

“I’ve asked. Apparently the director is only free on Friday,” Nakata mutters. He pauses. “But I guess we have to meet halfway somewhere. What if you throw in some posts, stories, for free? Get them some free social media reach?”

“Fine,” Oikawa says, nodding. He turns to the window. “I can do that.”

“Great. I’ll give the agency a call later.”

Nakata scrolls to the next item on his tablet. “Salvio is flying into Tokyo next week,” he says. “He’s part of the Argentinian Olympic committee, so he says that’s his main purpose. But, c’mon, he’s also the general manager of your team, so for sure he’s coming in to help them with the negotiations.”

“Makes sense.”

“So you’ll need to show your face and join me in Tokyo next weekend,” Nakata instructs. “Show him the city, we’ll take him to dinner somewhere in Roppongi,” he chuckles, “Get him drunk somewhere to get him to say yes to our demands.”

Oikawa nods. Before flying to Tokyo for training camp, he had just carried his team to win the Argentinian league championship. He was also nearing the end of his five year contract with them. Now a free agent, he was getting offers from other teams around the world, and his team was negotiating to extend his contract for three more years, but Nakata was confident that his value was worth much more now.

He looks out the window as the glass starts to fog, at the Yokohama streets that have started to grow familiar. He realizes that in the past six years, this is the longest time he’s spent in Japan. The longest he’s been home. Even during the off-season, the longest he’s usually been able to stay was a week, maybe a week and a half, before he’s flying back to Argentina or some other country for an international match. 

Three more years. The sound of raindrops pattering on the roof starts to fill the car.

“Are you okay?”

He turns to Nakata. “What?”

“You’re kind of quiet.”

Oikawa shifts in his seat. “I just came from therapy. I’m tired.”

Nakata nods. He turns back to his phone. And the car is quiet again before he continues, “You know, contrary to what you think of me sometimes. I do care about you and your wellbeing. And if having an ex around, doing your therapy is bothering you, then I can find a way to get him replaced. Like, if I really had to.”

_“I’m just tired,”_ Oikawa repeats. He rolls his eyes as he looks back out the window. “And he’s not an ex.”

“Oh,” Nakata pauses. “So he _was_ telling the truth.”

Oikawa narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I asked him a couple weeks ago, at the gala—”

“I'm honestly surprised you even remember anything from that night.”

“—And he said the same thing. Guess he wasn’t lying,” Nakata frowns as he puts his phone down on his lap. Oikawa sits up straighter when he recognizes the look on his face; it’s the one he makes when he finds a loose thread that he won’t stop pulling until he sees what it unravels. “Wasn’t expecting it. Because I’m usually good at reading these kinds of things…”

He turns to Oikawa. “So he’s not an ex.”

“I think we both made that clear.”

He nods slowly. “Because you never got together.”

“For people to be exes, it usually means they had to get together first—”

“But you wanted to,” Nakata finishes.

Oikawa hates the split-second pause he makes, because that’s all Nakata needs to sit back and fix a smug smile on his face. “ _I knew it_ ,” he says proudly, folding his arms over his chest. “You’ve been acting weird ever since the emergency room.”

But the smug look on his face disappears as a new thought occurs to him. “Wait, this isn’t going to fuck up your game up in the long-term right?” he asks, sitting up straighter. “Is this a distraction? I should get him replaced if it is, you know, having an old crush around—”

And Oikawa even catches himself off guard from how easy it is for him to say, “He’s just a friend.”

If he was in high school, he would have been sputtering over the declaration, because of how inaccurate the word was, how it didn’t fully encompass what he felt for Iwaizumi. And even now, he pauses, as if waiting for his heart to start beating uncontrollably like it used to. But it doesn’t. 

Maybe time has done its part. It’s been ten years. He’s almost thirty. Iwaizumi is now just a friend, and maybe, for the first time since he was fifteen, he’ll now know what it’s like to be around him without wishing for the vague, general idea of _more._

He looks out the window. “That’s it.”

Nakata gives him a long look, but then he gets a call, and he takes it. Relief slowly sets on Oikawa’s shoulders as he looks out the window and watches the rain beat against the glass.

– – –

  
  


“Do you want to watch a movie tomorrow?”

Oikawa chokes on the water he’s drinking. 

“What?” he coughs, hastily wiping his face with the back of his hand. 

He’s finally been cleared to start participating in training tomorrow, so they’re at the arena today to prepare. He and Iwaizumi are off by the sidelines, him on the floor doing his stretches while Iwaizumi sits on a bench and oversees. He’s there for the first session to make sure Oikawa isn’t doing anything strenuous yet and just in case anything happens. He glances down at Oikawa when he asks. 

“The new Godzilla movie is out,” he continues. He rests his hands by his sides to balance himself as he leans back. “And it’s my day off tomorrow, so, if you’re free and if you want to.” 

Oikawa pauses. For a long time now, the only time he’s been asked to watch a movie with someone is if it’s for a date or part of the initial stages of getting into his pants. The last time, his date had tried to impress him by inviting him to watch some obscure art film; it wasn’t really his kind of thing, but Oikawa was free that weekend, and he was cute, so he had agreed, and they ended up making out through most of the film so by the end of it he still couldn’t figure out what it was about. Which was basically as good as watching it. 

So it just takes him a second to wrap his head around the fact that this time, there is no ulterior agenda to sleep with him, and it’s for a movie about a mutated lizard fighting off aliens trying to take over the planet. It hits him that he hasn’t watched a movie with a friend in a long time. 

Iwaizumi shifts in his seat. “Or, if you’re not into that stuff anymore, and if so, never mind—”

Hinata, who had decided to join Oikawa in his stretches when he saw Iwaizumi was dropping by, straightens from his lunge. He sets his hands over his hips as he tilts his head to the courts. “Oh, Tomu-chan was also talking about that movie too.”

Iwaizumi glances at the women’s team at the other end of the arena. “Oh? I haven’t talked to her about it—”

“Yes, of course,” Oikawa interrupts. He clears his throat. “I’d love to watch it.”

He also finds himself sneaking a quick glance at the women’s team, where he spots Tomu pushing the cart of volleyballs onto their court. He doesn’t know anything about her aside from the fact she was one of the younger members of their team, and for some reason, she’s been popping up in their conversations lately. He’s good friends with the women’s captain though, and he could probably ask her about—

He clears his throat again. _Anyway,_ Iwaizumi had clearly asked _him_ , because Oikawa can recognize this was probably some sweet gesture to reconnect by taking part in an activity they used to do back when they were kids. So the meaning would be lost completely, and it wouldn’t make any sense, if he asked Tomu (or anyone else) to watch with him. So it’s only fitting that he be the one to watch the movie with him. 

Iwaizumi turns to him, surprised at his enthusiastic reply. “Oh, great,” he says. “Tomorrow after your training is okay?”

Oikawa nods. “Yeah, sure.”

He grins, and something in Oikawa’s chest feels like he’s just hiccupped, without the hiccup. He takes another sip of his water and continues with his stretches.

When Oikawa heads to training the next day, he recognizes a tingly, slightly nervous feeling in his stomach. The kind that he usually feels before a big event or a match, even if he doesn’t have both. He chalks it up to being able to practice with his team again, because it eases when he gets to the court and his teammates rush over to welcome him back. He smiles, and easily jokes that they better have not slacked off while he was gone, and he hopes they didn’t die of boredom by having vice-captain Ushijima in charge. 

And he forgets about the feeling for most of training. Their first drill has an assistant coach outside the court, tossing a ball up in the air in different places for him to set up for the hitters lined up by the baseline. He flows through it easily enough, starting off light on his jumps, and the ball feels good on his fingers, his sets controlled and even. He’s proud of each satisfying smack of the ball with each hitter’s hand, and he soothes the ones that don’t connect their hits as smoothly. 

“It’s okay, Jouji-kun,” he sing-songs, when the ball glances off the side of his hand. “Line up and get the next one.”

When another hits the ball with an open palm and the ball arches rather than angles down, he chuckles. “Face your palm down more in the next one, Kanabe-chan,” he says lightly, demonstrating it for him as he goes back to the line. “You can do it.”

When they stop for a break and he’s talking with Bokuto, he overhears the juniors talking amongst themselves.

“Oikawa-senpai is in a really good mood today…”

“Yeah, I noticed he’s smiling a lot,” one says, his voice low. “But I wasn’t sure if it was one of his ‘smiling on the outside but ‘You better do better in the next one or you’re dead to me’ in the inside’ kind of smiles.”

“I think he has plans later…?”

“I guess even captains can miss going to practice…”

He takes an even sip of his water and he mulls over their words. They’re right. He is in a good mood. And he feels even better when he sneaks up behind them, and when he says, “What are my favorite juniors talking about?”, they jump so high that for a split-second, it looks like their souls leave their bodies.

He carries his good mood all the way through practice and even when he gets home and starts preparing his dinner. He’s having grilled salmon, and because they’re all back on a strict diet, it was salmon last week, and it will be salmon again the day after next. And usually he’s sick of it and complaining to Nakata by now, but today it doesn’t taste so bland. Maybe they added more spices today or he’s finally reheated it perfectly. He’s putting the fork in his mouth when his phone starts ringing and he’s already pressing it to his ear when he realizes he never even bothered to check who it was first. What if it was some stalker who managed to find his number—

“Hi, Oikawa? I got your number from Nakata.”

Oikawa relaxes. It’s not a stalker. 

“Hi, Iwa-chan,” he greets, smiling. He pulls his phone away from his ear to look at the screen. “I guess you changed your number at some point?”

“Yeah, I lost my phone in college,” Iwaizumi replies. There’s noise in the background; the soft drone of a PA system. A train station? Is he on the way there already?

“Oh, I see. I’ll save this number then,” He pokes at a piece of broccoli on his plate. “What time are we meeting by the way?”

There’s a pause. “Actually, I was calling to apologize because we have to reschedule.”

“Oh,” Oikawa says, his fork growing limp in his hand. It’s only a second later when he realizes how small his voice sounded. He sits up straight and lets out a laugh. “That’s fine, Iwa-chan. You could have just texted.”

“Ah, yeah, thought it’d be faster to call,” he sighs. “I got called to the ER. Sorry for this.”

Oikawa shakes his head. “You don’t need to apologize! It’s fine.”

_It is fine._ They’re adults. They have responsibilities. Sometimes those responsibilities need to take precedence. Especially Iwaizumi’s. Because he’s a doctor, so another person’s health is probably involved. And he must get called to the hospital all the time, like how he got called when Oikawa had to go to the ER. So he’s sure it happens pretty often.

It happens. It’s fine. 

“Okay, my train’s arriving.”

Oikawa clears his throat. 

“Alright. I hope it’s nothing too serious.”

“Yeah, I hope so too.”

Iwaizumi soon hangs up and Oikawa sets his phone down. He takes a bite of the salmon and frowns as he swallows it. He stands up to reheat it because it’s just as bad as he had it last time.

  
  


– – –

  
  


With his evening free, Oikawa gets started on his match videos. He changes into his pajamas, puts on his glasses, clips his bangs back, and plugs in his USB to the apartment’s overly large television. Beside him is his notebook and on his other side, a small bowl of sliced carrots—the only thing he’s allowed to snack on. 

It’s easy for him to slip into a hyper-focused state while studying these matches. Hours can go by until he realizes it’s two in the morning and he needs to sleep. But this time he finds his mind wandering to other things. He thinks about his juniors commenting on his mood during practice. What special case Iwaizumi had to be called in for. If it’s serious, and if he’s stressing over it. He’s halfway into the second match when he realizes he's been nibbling on the same piece of carrot for the past few minutes and he hasn’t taken down any notes and doesn’t remember any of the plays they just did. Grumbling, he sits up to pick up the remote when a phone starts ringing. It’s not his phone, but the apartment’s landline, which could only mean someone from the front desk is calling him.

He leans over to pick it up and presses it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Good evening, Oikawa-san. We have a guest here in the lobby, and he says he’s here to see you.”

There’s a shuffling sound as the phone transfers to someone else.

“Hi, it’s me.”

Oikawa jerks upright. “Iwa-chan? What are—are you downstairs?”

“Yeah. Sorry, I forgot to text I was on the way, but—” there’s a pause. “If we leave now, we’ll be able to make it to the 11PM showing.”

He knows he’s getting older because the first thing Oikawa does is think, _‘We’re watching a movie that_ starts _at 11PM?’_

The second thing is he takes stock of himself. He’s in his pajamas. He’s already finished his expensive skincare routine and he’s just clipped his hair back so he’ll need to wet it and dry it again to get it fixed. He thinks about the outfit he put away earlier—one he had cleared with his stylist the day before with the brief: _watching a movie, and I need to look presentable because I’m going out, but it’s not a date, so I don’t want to look like I tried, but it’s with someone I haven’t seen for a long time, so I need to try a bit, but not too hard, you know?_ —and he’d need to fix his hair to go with it. And that takes fifteen, twenty minutes on its own. 

“Oikawa?”

He snaps out of his thoughts. It crosses his mind that he could say no. It is late and last minute. But—Iwaizumi asked him. Again. He came straight from the hospital, so they could watch it.

“Yes, okay, I’ll be right down.”

He jumps off the sofa, nearly spilling over the bowl of carrots, and races to his room. He settles for jeans and a dark cashmere sweater. Given there’s no time for his hair, he picks up the only baseball cap he owns, merch from Takeru’s university baseball team. Takeru had proudly given it to him as a gift, but really, it’s a symbol of his betrayal for turning his back on volleyball, and on Oikawa, his favorite (and only) uncle. But he can grudgingly accept that he’s grateful for it now. He reminds himself to text Takeru that fine, he’ll accept his poor taste in sport. 

In the elevator, he notices that the tingly feeling in his stomach has returned. And when he sees Iwaizumi standing in the middle of the lobby, it grows even stronger. 

Iwaizumi looks up from his phone.. “Oh, I haven’t seen you wear your glasses in a long time.”

Oikawa freezes. He lifts a hand to his face. He had completely forgotten to change into contacts before leaving his apartment. 

“Give me two minutes, I need to change—“

“It’s fine.”

“Iwa-chan—“

“ _Shittykawa, it’s fine,”_ Iwaizumi repeats. “Let’s go or we’ll be late.”

Oikawa’s eyes widen. He falls back as he watches Iwaizumi turn and head for the exits. It’s the first time he’s called him by that name since they fell into each other’s lives again. He’s noticed there’ve been instances where he almost said it, but he’s held back. He probably doesn’t even realize it slipped. Oikawa exhales, fighting the knots in his stomach, and quickly follows after his best friend.

The theater is a walkable distance from his apartment and they manage to get to it with ten minutes to spare. Because a movie isn’t complete without popcorn, even if he won’t be able to eat any of it but at least Iwaizumi can, they split up—he buys the tickets, Iwaizumi buys the popcorn. It’s late, so there aren’t a lot of people in the cinema, but he still keeps his head low to avoid being recognized. Not because he’s particularly worried about being spotted, but more than anything if he gets sidetracked with talking to people, he’d make Iwaizumi late for his movie. 

After buying the tickets, he catches up to Iwaizumi line to the popcorn. Oikawa grins as he lifts the tickets, and when he turns to his friend, he realizes it’s the first time that night where he’s been able to pause and really take a look at him. So it’s only then does he see how tired he looks. He tries to hide his yawn behind his hand, but it’s the second one he’s made in the span of a few seconds.

“You look exhausted,” Oikawa observes, his hand dropping to his side. They step forward in line. “You sure you don’t want to just sleep?”

Iwaizumi blinks at him and Oikawa recognizes the bone-tired look in his eyes. He wonders what happened in the hospital.

“It’s the last week they’re showing it,” Iwaizumi mutters, yawning once more. “I’ve been wanting to see it. And I know you like this stuff too, so I thought it’d be nice to watch together. Like before.”

Oikawa feels his face grow warm, so he quickly turns his face away. Maybe it’s the exhaustion that has Iwaizumi talking more, because he doesn’t usually explain why he does things. Oikawa remembers times when he’d get so frustrated trying to figure out what Iwaizumi was thinking and wishing he’d just say what was in his mind more. 

_I only liked it because you liked it,_ is the first thing Oikawa wants to say. And it’s true. Aliens and space were always his thing. It just so happens they appeared a lot in Godzilla movies. He hasn’t caught up with anything Godzilla related ever since he lost touch with Iwaizumi. 

And deep down, he liked Godzilla only because he liked the way Iwaizumi’s eyes lit up whenever he talked about it. Or how he would get excited whenever the topic was brought up. It just took Oikawa a long time to realize why that was the case. 

“And besides, I committed. So it’d be shitty if I cancelled.”

He glances back at Iwaizumi. “You look like you’re going to pass out any second though.”

“I won’t.”

And he doesn’t. He passes out exactly fifteen minutes into the movie. 

The scenes are dark, so Oikawa only notices because he lets out a snore loud enough to get the people two rows in front of them to glare back at them. And he doesn’t even know if they can see him, but Oikawa returns it with his own glare, because he doubts they spent their day treating someone in the emergency room like Iwaizumi did. So he lets him sleep, because he deserves the rest. 

He glances back at Iwaizumi, and in the minimal light, he notices some powdered cheese on the collar of his shirt, probably when he was trying to put popcorn in his mouth but fell asleep halfway through. And despite the fact Iwaizumi lets out another loud snore that has someone hissing, “Shhh!”, he thinks— _Cute_. And he’s overwhelmed with the desire to take a photo. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and makes sure to turn the flash off before sneakily taking one. His folder of blackmail-worthy photos of Iwaizumi needs to be updated anyway. 

After, he leans over to pluck the bucket of popcorn from his lap in case it falls. He turns back to the movie, and it’s actually pretty enjoyable, so it’s a shame Iwaizumi is sleeping through all of it.

It’s reaching the climax of a fight scene when Iwaizumi shifts in his seat, and his arm slides off his arm rest, and all focus Oikawa had on the explosions diverts to the feeling of Iwaizumi’s hand, warm against his thigh. He steadies his breathing and returns his eyes to the screen, forcing himself to pay attention, until Iwaizumi shifts even closer and starts leaning against his side. And Oikawa lets him continue sleeping. Because—he's tired.

Besides, the cinema is cold and his sweater isn’t thick enough, so he’s thankful for the warmth, and he’s thankful for the dark that hides the burning in his cheeks as he gently leans back.

  
  


– – –

  
  


The cinema lights turn back on and Iwaizumi jerks awake. He pulls away, taking his hand from Oikawa’s thigh, and taking the warmth with him. He lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the light.

“Fuck,” he breathes, quickly checking his phone. He turns to Oikawa. “I fell asleep. Did you get to watch the movie?”

“Yeah, I did.”

It’s a lie. He doesn’t remember what happened ever since Iwaizumi’s hand fell on his thigh. But he doesn’t need to tell him that. He watches Iwaizumi lean forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he takes a deep breath to wake himself up. He rubs a hand over his face before he glances back at him. 

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I feel like I just wasted your time.”

“No, you didn’t,” Oikawa quickly says. “I don’t mind spending time with you.”

His breath catches in his throat. Was that a weird thing to say?

Iwaizumi nods. He leans back against his seat and yawns before turning to Oikawa. “You were right. I should have just gone to bed.” 

The PA system softly tells them they’re closing the cinema soon, so they stand up to leave. Oikawa places the popcorn in the bin as he sing-songs, “I’m right on many things, Iwa-chan. If only you would listen to me.”

Iwaizumi runs a hand through his hair as he sighs. “It’s like… I was trying to hold on to some semblance of a day off,” he mutters, mostly to himself. They step out of the cinema, and they’re welcomed by the bright lights of the cinema lobby. He adds, “I haven’t even eaten dinner yet.”

Oikawa spins around to face him, his eyes wide. “What?”

“Yeah. Went straight to the ER when I got to the hospital, went straight to you when I finished in the ER.”

Oikawa looks around for a place for them to eat, but the restaurants have all long closed, and the ones that are open have already begun closing their stores. “Everything’s closed by now—”

“It’s fine, I know a place that’s still open.”

Which is how they end up at the 7-11 across Oikawa’s apartment. 

“Iwa-chan, if this is where you take people on a date, I feel really bad for them,” Oikawa declares as the glass doors slide open. The store’s soft, electronic chimes welcome them as they step in. 

“Of course I don’t,” Iwaizumi scoffs as he goes through the food aisles, and easily picks out what he wants with the familiarity of someone who eats their food often. He picks up an egg sandwich and heads to the chilled drinks aisle to pick up a bottle of juice.

“Green tea?” he asks, lifting a bottle.

Oikawa chuckles, “Oh, Iwa-chan, how did you know I’m a cheap date?”

“Really? I have a hard time believing that,” Iwaizumi laughs, smiling as he picks up the bottle. And Oikawa’s stomach flip-flops when he sees the corner of his eyes wrinkle as he laughs. He stands back as Iwaizumi walks up to the counter with their food. He adds an order of fried chicken and pays for his food and their drinks, passing Oikawa his bottle of green tea. He then packs his food into a plastic bag that hangs by his side as they leave the store.

“Anyway, I hope that wasn’t a complete waste of time,” Iwaizumi begins, in a tone that sounds like he’s about to say goodbye.

Oikawa turns, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Oh, you’re heading home?”

Iwaizumi pauses. “Uh… yeah?”

“Oh,” Oikawa pauses. He assumed they were going to his apartment to eat because it’s right across the street. But then again, they did just come from a movie, so maybe that’d be weird for him to come up—but, it wasn’t a date. He’s overthinking it. They used to go to each other’s house after watching a movie all the time, so—yeah, it shouldn’t be weird and he shouldn’t even be attaching any meaning to inviting him up—or, to anything of this night, really. 

He clears his throat. “Come up. You can reheat your food in my place so you can eat already.”

Iwaizumi blinks. “Oh yeah, that’s a good idea.”

His lack of hesitation just proves Oikawa’s thoughts that yes, he shouldn’t try to attach anything weird about this perfectly normal situation. They’re just two friends that watched a movie together. And they’re two friends going up to his apartment so they can use his microwave and he can have his dinner. So it really doesn’t explain the knots in his stomach as Iwaizumi follows him to his apartment lobby, and when he tells the woman at the front desk that he is with him.

When they get to Oikawa’s apartment, he immediately orders Iwaizumi to the sofa.

“I can—”

“Iwa-chan, you literally just passed out during a movie,” Oikawa stresses, taking the food from him. He points to the sofa. “Sit down.”

After another round of arguing, Iwaizumi finally relents and gets on the sofa. Oikawa brings his food to the kitchen and takes out the sandwich and chicken from their plastic containers before putting them in his toaster oven. While it heats up, he takes out a plate and some napkins. He disposes the plastic containers in the bin, then leans against the counter while he waits for the food, and looks up when he hears Iwaizumi calling him from the living room.

“Were you reviewing some games?”

“Yeah,” Oikawa calls back. “How’d you know?”

“I recognize the notes,” Iwaizumi says. Oikawa sees him lift his notebook. “Your handwriting is the same. Barely readable.”

Oikawa laughs as he turns back to the toaster oven to make sure the food isn’t getting burnt. He glances at his watch—wow, it’s almost 2AM—and it occurs to him that, as mundane as it is, this is a first for him; coming back from a movie and reheating an egg sandwich at two in the morning. He glances back at Iwaizumi in the living room, resting against the sofa, flipping through his notes. If he had a different life, would this have been a regular thing? Coming back from a late movie, eating convenience store take-out, talking about things that happened during his day. What would that Oikawa be like? Would he be dissatisfied and looking for something more, or would he be happy and content with his life? And whoever he was living it with. He likes to think he’d be living with someone.

A few more minutes pass until he takes the food out. He’s carefully placing them on the plate when he pauses. It’s gone quiet. He sets the plate on the island counter as he walks back to the living room to check on Iwaizumi, and stops when he sees him slumped on the sofa, fast asleep, his head pillowed on his arm. His notebook is in his other hand; he probably was in the middle of reading them when he passed out.

Oikawa edges closer so he can wake him up, but stops, his hand just by Iwaizumi’s shoulder. If he wakes him up, he’ll still be half asleep as he eats, then he’d probably pass out again in his taxi on the way home. Oikawa bites his bottom lip. It’d be better if he just stayed over to get some rest. He could make up for him not eating now by ordering him a better breakfast tomorrow. He glances back, thinking about offering Iwaizumi one of the guest rooms, but he’ll probably just insist on going back home. 

He looks down at Iwaizumi one more time. It hits him that he doesn’t like the idea seeing that tired look in his eyes again.

Decided, Oikawa heads to one of the spare guest rooms and takes the blanket from one of the beds. He bundles it in his arms before carrying it to the living room. Standing by the foot of the sofa, he unfolds the blanket, then carefully lays it over Iwaizumi, making sure not to wake him up. He gently eases his notebook out of his hand and sets it on the coffee table.

“Good night, Iwa-chan,” he murmurs softly, before turning the dial to lower the lights to a softer, muted glow. 

He returns to the kitchen and quietly places the food and their drinks in his fridge. He’s sliding them onto a free rack when he notices how much they stick out from the perfectly organized, and almost clinical, contents of his fridge—clear bottles of water, his prepped food in their neatly sealed containers. He doesn’t even have any snacks or leftovers or half-empty jars of something that should have been thrown out weeks ago. 

He turns off the kitchen lights as he leaves, sparing one more glance at Iwaizumi, before heading to his room. He takes a quick shower, halves his usual skincare regimen because he wants to sleep soon, and is getting ready for bed when he remembers he hasn’t checked his phone in a while. He takes it out of the pocket of jeans when he sees the messages from Nakata.

**Nakata Kenjiro:** Anything I need to know?

**Nakata Kenjiro:** Or worry about?

**Nakata Kenjiro:** _sent a link_

Oikawa lies down on his bed as he opens the link. It opens to Twitter search results for his name. It figures Nakata would keep updated on conversations around him. But when he sees the top tweet he sits up. 

**@oikawapics** \- 3 hr _  
_omg??? dating??? boyfriend???

Attached is a picture of him and Iwaizumi from when they were lining up in the theater. In the unfairness of it all, Iwaizumi’s back is to the camera so his face isn’t seen, but even with the baseball cap and glasses on, OIkawa is recognizable because the side of his face is turned to the camera as he looks at Iwaizumi. He didn’t realize he was standing so close—but then again, they were lining up??—and he’s laughing at something because this was probably when Iwaizumi cracked a joke about Ushijima, and he’s holding the popcorn because he had joked Iwaizumi might drop it in his sleep-deprived state, and he feels his stomach flip-flop because the tweet is right. It _does_ look like they're on a date. 

He scrolls down and reads the replies and his stomach flip-flops again when everyone else seems to think so too. 

**@tooooooru** \- 3 hr  
SWEET SUMMER (OLYMPICS) LOVE!!!

**@okwtr13** \- 3 hr _  
_omgg who is it??

(also: Oikawa in glasses??!) <3 <3 

**@oikstooru** \- 3 hr  
He looks so happy! @_@ Oikawa-senpai, please be happy! Don’t get stressed during training!

He’s fifty tweets deep into the results when he realizes he’s lying on his side, and he’s pulled a pillow to his chest as he continues scrolling. And instead of feeling horrified by the open speculation, he finds his face warming and the corners of his mouth twitching up as he reads people’s imaginary histories and theories of who Iwaizumi is, how they know each other, how they met. Some are convinced by the one photo alone that they’ve been secretly dating for the past few years, one writes up their own coffee shop meet-cute that has him _blushing_ —because, well, it’s a cute story!—and he’s also caught off guard by how close some of the tweets are that he wonders if he’s unconsciously written some of them.

**@emotionalsupportsetter** \- 52m _  
_It can’t be someone new. Look at Oikawa’s eyes, his body language. There’s history there. It’s either a really good friend or an ex-boyfriend.

**@OIKAWAreactionvids** \- 49m _  
_Maybe both!!!

**@oikawaswife** \- 13m _  
_I disagree. I bet Oikawa is TOTALLY the kind to have dramatic breakups, purge any photos of his ex on his feed, post ambiguous quotes on stories, and never talk to his ex ever again

_‘No, I just moved to the other side of the world and_ then _I never spoke to him again’,_ he thinks, and immediately quashes the thought. 

And somehow, in the three or so hours since the photo was taken, someone managed to make fanart! That he quickly saves. Because—he appreciates the effort. And besides, he’s saved other fanart of himself. This one just has Iwaizumi on it too which—is funny. And nice. Maybe he’ll show it to him one time. Or not. He would have liked the tweet too, but he knows people might think it means he’s confirming their speculation. When no, this is just their imagination running wild from one photo, and they’re far from correct. Iwaizumi is just—a friend.

Somewhere, deep down, maybe in the core of his id, he wonders what would happen if he _did_ like the tweet. What would happen if he took a quick selfie with Iwaizumi right now, in his apartment, adding fuel to the speculative fire. For sure they’d be able to recognize him from his clothes. He wonders what everyone would think. What Iwaizumi would think. His face warms at the fact he’s even thinking about it.

Shaking his head, he types out his reply to Nakata. 

**Oikawa Tooru:** It’s just Iwaizumi. We watched a movie.

**Oikawa Tooru:** It’s nothing

It’s nearly three in the morning, so Nakata will probably see it when he wakes up in a few hours. Oikawa sighs as he puts his phone by his bedside table and gets under the covers. He closes his eyes and tries to sleep because he’ll have to be up again in three hours. But after about ten minutes of trying, he swipes his phone off the table and pulls the covers over himself as he returns to Twitter and continues scrolling through the tweets. 

  
  


– – –

  
  


Oikawa’s body clock wakes him up exactly three hours later. He blinks up at the ceiling, at the light creeping from the windows, and groggily picks up his phone to check the time. Instead, it opens to the photo of him and Iwaizumi—and he remembers Iwaizumi is still in his apartment. 

He sits up, blinking the sleep from his eyes, and heads to his bathroom first to rinse his mouth with mouthwash, and to fix his hair. He picks up his jade roller and runs it over his eyes and the contours of his face to get rid of any puffiness. Once he’s satisfied, he leaves his room, taking slow steps to the living room in case Iwaizumi is still asleep—but stops when he sees he isn’t there. The blanket he had put over him is neatly folded on the sofa. 

He pauses to listen for any sounds in the apartment, but doesn’t hear any noise from the bathroom or anywhere else. From the living room’s large windows, he can see Iwaizumi isn’t on the balcony. He turns back to check in one of the guest rooms when he sees a note on the island counter that wasn’t there last night. He walks over and picks it up.

_Thanks for letting me stay over. Had to go to work._

Oh, right. Iwaizumi has work today. Right. He sets the note back down on the counter. He admits to himself that he is a little bit disappointed because it would have been nice to tease him about passing out again. And _maybe_ he had planned to order him some food so they could have breakfast together and that would have been nice too. But. He digresses. He heads to his room to get ready for his day.

When he gets back home after training, he drops his training bag by the door and spots the blanket still on the sofa. He walks over to pick it up so he can return it to the guest room when he notices something on the carpet, underneath the sofa. He kneels down, and when he picks it up, he realizes it’s Iwaizumi’s hospital ID. It must have fallen out of his wallet. 

When he’s having his dinner by the island counter, he has his plate of grilled chicken in front of him, a fork in one hand and Iwaizumi’s ID in the other. As he chews his food, he studies the ID. He wonders when the photo was taken; he looks much younger than if it was taken when he was already at the hospital. Knowing him, he probably submitted his old med school ID photo because he didn’t see the point in taking and paying for a new set of photos. Oikawa chuckles to himself; yeah, that’s probably it. 

He runs his thumb over the photo, at medical school Iwaizumi. As usual, he’s not smiling in it, instead he has a small scowl as he looks oh-so-seriously into the camera. His cheeks are fuller than they are now too. He wonders if it’s because of youth or if he gained some weight during medical school because he didn’t have a lot of time to exercise then or because of stress. Or if he drank the stress away with his schoolmates every other night and ate too much instant ramen and convenience store food. He thinks about what other possible experiences Iwaizumi had during that time, that he doesn’t know about because he wasn’t there. And how he'd like to know about them.

Shaking his head, he sets the ID down and tries to return to his food. He checks his watch. It’s almost 7PM. He wonders if Iwaizumi managed to eat dinner today. Or if he’s too tired to prepare anything and might resort to 7-11 food again. Maybe he could bring him something better to eat.

His eyes wander to the ID. And he’d need to meet up with him to give him his ID back anyway, so…

Oikawa picks up his phone. He knows exactly what to get. He looks up where to find the best agedashi tofu in Yokohama, and after getting a list of restaurants, chooses the most expensive one. Because if Iwaizumi is still the cheapskate he is, he probably refuses to treat himself to something nice once in a while and despite being a ~~hot~~ accomplished doctor, still thinks a packet of instant ramen constitutes an entire meal. 

After ordering, he faces his next dilemma. The only person who knows where Iwaizumi lives now is Nakata. And just as expected, when he asks him for his address, his manager pointedly ignores the question and instead replies with:

**Nakata Kenjiro:** Why???? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

**Nakata Kenjiro:** He made it clear he doesn’t do house calls

**Oikawa Tooru:** ugh

**Oikawa Tooru:** I just need to return something

It takes a few evasive texts, but he finally wrestles the address out of Nakata. He changes to a new set of clothes, definitely _not_ because he’s trying to impress anyone, but because he’s not like Bokuto, who’s totally fine with looking like he came straight out of practice. And besides, he has time to get ready while the food is being prepared, so he might as well. 

An hour and a half later, he’s picked up the food from the restaurant, and he finds himself standing in front of what should be Iwaizumi’s door. He checks Nakata’s text one more time to make sure he’s got the number right. He also repeats to himself that this is just him, being a good friend, bringing over food. They used to do it all the time, like how they used to watch movies together all the time. There really should be no reason for him to feel nervous or for his hands to feel sweaty. 

Oikawa rings the doorbell, and just in case, he practices his responses. He found his ID at his apartment so he's returning it, and oh, he spotted this restaurant on the way— _not true, it was a fifteen minute drive out of the way plus traffic_ —and being the kind, considerate person he is— _definitely, also not true—_ took it upon himself to make up for him not being able to eat dinner the night before. He grins as he thinks about the look on Iwaizumi’s face when he sees him, and when he realizes he’s ordered him his favorite tofu and that he's even remembered it _(hopefully, still is)_ his favorite, and he’s so caught up in the image that it takes his brain a few seconds to process that when the door opens, it’s not Iwaizumi opening it. 

It’s a woman, looking completely at home, with her hair clipped back and wearing a pair of pink pajamas. 

“Did you forget—oh,” she says, her eyes wide. “You’re not Iwaizumi.”

His brain catches up, and his heart follows after, when he feels it drop to the pit of his stomach.

  
  


– – –

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> — Oikawa POV is so fun to write because I feel like I’m tapping my id. And I've always wanted to write introspective Oikawa, haha!
> 
> — I’ve started a new job (yes, nothing like making big life choices in the middle of a pandemic) so you may have noticed that the updates are going to come in slower, but I will finish this story. I look forward to the thirty or so minutes of writing time I manage to squeeze into my days.
> 
> — Lemme know what you guys think! :)


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